And so begins another day, another glance into our future, our present, our past.
We somehow always find ourselves lost, unable to find our path.
We lower ourselves until we become as so much a comparison to the creatures that roam the sea.
Until one or two people open us up, leave us not to dry out as husks, but to fill us with hope.
Because hope is never there, until you dream of it.
There is another, who is not seen, but is sensed.
A movement is made, and your expression is lifted.
The premonition is left behind.
Our past but a charred spot on our minds.
The canvas is left without a hand stain on it.
The paper is left in place, the inky pen left aside.
Footprints imprinted in the snow.
A child watches you from her stead.
She asks you stop, and look down.
You see yourself,
and you weep.
The child lifts you and says,
“Beauty was within, not without.”