Our hopes are the tide of wit and joy tearing apart mountains of aged certainty and despots of our time, unable to bridge the lights of the dimensions with gateways of minds or echoes of truths, as are gone from the timeline of infinite loss, unable to remember what has been taken because it is not a memory of action, but yet a charge against our willpower mercy and tireless fight amongst the warmth of others.
It isn't known if this the vanishing truth is the only one, or the fading darkness is the custom or the cost, without knowing if circumstances are predictable in the shadow of itself or the causality of usual things, trusting with the fear of a young soul that it had not happened in waking dreams.
Riots of rebellion in questioning existence or garnering favor all in the existential questions, demanding more from the fountain of youth and staring at the stars, to where it is now another reflection, from this side of the dark mirror, of the living infinite, and the terrible question.
The negative space unbearably wasted, the impenetrable unknown that wanes with the loss of so many, that waxes with the ignorance that comes with incapable excuses at this egregious moment, in the world of the living, where now they bow to matters that must not take any reality for granted, to honor those that traveled on the surface of time and lived with infinite balance.
"Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be."
~ Miguel de Cervantes