Wait for it.

The universe is as inhospitable as we are fragile. The vacuum of space, the immense heat of stars, and an apparent coldness of the distance between. Then there is the familiar landscape of inner space. In sleepless nights we explore its fertile fields where quiet fears of inadequacy and corse pains of abandonment flourish. Unbearable, it seems.

Not choosing birth, we forage for that which blunts its sting. Seeking solace we climb peaks of emotion or wander valleys groping for yesterday's goodness. Drunken nights retreat, as sobriety trickles in from the east. Disheveled in an unforgiving light, we find ourselves aged but no wiser.  

Friend. Trust without evidence other than our friendship, that a covert call to a magnificent flying creature is tied to every act. A regal one, whose melodious song sways innocent ears and whose wings stroke a comforting and consuming flame. Unflinchingly endure. For the unfortunate brave emit from every pore and breath, a call, an invitation to be met.  Waiting for it.