Dansa

As I stared into the dark, devoid of my trinkets and eclectic discrepancies, the eyes that stared back were those of the end.

Turmoil embraced me and I turned my back, a slower end was the seemingly appropriate option.

Is it the fear of death, or the fear of my deaths impact on the life I love here. I dare not approach my end self and ask, for the answer may well be the bane of my own existence.

In all, retracing my steps to the material world, I find myself again embodied by the trinkets of this place. I am sated and the dark eyes that lurk in anticipation for my return are out of sight.

The previous embodiment of my destruction and end is now embraced, in my foolish naivete I had assumed that the dark would no longer hold my turmoil.

In the end, one is always waiting.

In the end he is always more powerful than the living I.

In the end he waits, while I walk crooked lines to slow our embrace.

Will my frolicking build me courage to meet him again before my clock has run out? Or will I be of fleet foot until there is no longer space between him and I.

I am but his satellite, my own satellite. This gravitation is my concerted existence and each pass is but a notions moment of narcissistic inflection.

Tentatively seeking and retrospectively speaking I know the pattern and the answer.

But do I dare to utter the reality.

Maybe next time.