With each spin of a gods coin,
the constellation of dots join,
with each swipe of the palm across salted face,
and each footstep in or out of any place;
notes are taken. Words are spoken.
Nothing is token.
Even when it’s broken.
Each year that scolds,
each day that unfolds,
every single moment, breathtaking or mundane
soaked in laughter or drenched in pain
is irreversibly etched into the
bark of your life’s great tree.
Your aches, and the wisdom in each white
effort to get back up.
Carved by a gods brittle knife
are the actions that mark your life
the words that left the trail of fire
like, ‘Warrior and Warning Crier’,
and among the others, all aged and
varying in depth, can be seen:
Survivor. Warrior. Soldier. Ferocious Mind Ablaze.
The years are still unfolding, and
the brittle knife, the gods are not yet done holding.
The bark is hard and ready,
You remain tall and steady.
Fired in the heat, washed clean in the seas
Loved and protected, and they would have it be.