You were on the edge, far away from the life of any city or forest. To say you were tormented by any deep evil would be to dismiss the ferocity of what ailed you.

Trying to hold you while the utter bleakness threatens to consume, it is like the burn of a dying ember or the cut of dull plastic, feigning the make of glass. Glass might reflect light, to show you yourself and brighten the day. Plastic does no such thing and the fire is failing.

Is this victory? Was my intention to save you or drown you? Perhaps in this shade you cannot see, but I too can no longer gleam my own thoughts. Poetry is written about this, for good or for ill. For loss or for win.

Perhaps it is simply in the emotion that makes us stronger than any who came before us, those who would know better or worse. What we should, what we will, become is more than what came before, if we only use them as stepping stones.

You may be forever scarred and I may be forever wronged, but if we survive…

The future is there.