Dusted

Fiction.

From the ceiling,
A white feather falls.
With a dark awakening,
You hear a mysterious call.
"What is this?",
You said, with a knowing smile.
"Who did this?",
You said, with a crooked smile.
The heaven's floor is painted with blood,
And you were the decorator.
And upon being asked about a curse,
You denied being its creator.
The moon was brought down forcefully from the sky,
It was thought to be an impossible feat.
Though your might has reached beyond heaven high,
You still seek opponents whom you can't beat.
Such Determination,
Extending beyond survival.
Such Abomination,
A desire akin to wormholes.
Faithfully, you endured the conquests of the past,
Only to set eyes on the faltering angle of the future.
Though old wounds are naught but salt and rash,
There is no going back to the life of a happy beaver.
There is no building a happy family,
There is no living a normal life,
There is no serving others kindly,
There is no way ending this immortal strife.
But here you are, still before me.
This exceeds mere curiousity.
This display stands equal to the innermost affection,
Akin to the light in your eyes, glaring, with Determination.
Partner.

- Stu. T.H. (March 10, 2024)