the avenues of loss don’t get any fewer this side of living. to the pilgrims who cling to the rope by one halal haribo. when in childhood wonder we learned to multiply and divide we didn’t account for those exponential paths to a seventy year hollowing or that one indivisible road less travelled. to the promised land. to the seekers who collapse with the weight of revelation until the banks of beating hearts and tired translucent skin stretches to accommodate the latest transgression’s emotions. for those this side of living. perhaps the honey of a magnanimous word will be harvested where the grass is most definitely greener. perhaps a colony of ants pour to devour the sweetness that will pile in your hands. here’s for hoping for a blessed sleep. because barely does the eye adjust to tentative light only to be swallowed by darkness again. here’s to praying and wishing. here’s to us, the class of this millennium somehow surviving three darknesses, somehow becoming the clay niche where the sun sets.