Once, in the waning whisper of time, family threads, woven with the warp of now, were welcomed; yet, now they languish, lost and lorn. No more shall I tread the silent, shadowed paths of the co-conspirator, akin to a spectral predator, a silent supplicant over destined doom, delighting in the demise of its quarry. In this ballet of the benighted, I’ve become but a mere murmur, muzzled in my own making, for melancholy, like a moonlit muse, murmurs for the meeting of kindred souls.

In our ceaseless cycle, craving evermore, we peer into the pyres of our passions, perceiving not the pettiness of our plight, but the profound parity in our pulse. Overwhelmed, yet unvanquished, by mightier maelstroms, our spirits soar, steadfast, in their starward surge.

Paths diverge in the dance of destiny, weaving wistful webs of wins and woes. Yet, in the twilight of triumph, the vanquished vanish, their vestiges veiled in the void, their whispers withering in the winds of the world. In this grand gala of the galaxies, we wax, within the walls of our wonder, not for wanton wealth but for the will to weather and witness. For a fire, in its fervent fervor, flourishes only as long as it finds the feast to fuel its flame
© Betty B. Goodman