Conversations with old friends.
Wistful, carefree, but troubling, if only because we see change,
Mayhap good, often not so.
The fallibility of all, so evident in its persistent pervasiveness of people,
That it leaves no stone unturned, no rock unmoved, no character unblemished, no spirit unbroken.
No faith untorn.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, that those we hold in such regard would find themselves in the fall,
To know the depths at which they sink, could and would and have.
Look in the mirror of their faces, and see the apparition of ourselves staring back,
Love in its smile, death in its eyes.
The pedestal is high, which, in seeing the idol violently descend,
We realize isn't fit for anyone to grace save for Grace Himself.
For He is able to remain steadfast in the malevolent storms we as our own gods create in ignorance to destroy ourselves.
The veil was rent only to be restored by hands that would claw at it,
Bloody, rampant, desperate, blinded.
The choice remains ours, as it ever was, and for now, still is.
Are we to meet death on our own terms, or His?
That we, that you, that I would choose to die by, for, with, and in GRACE,
And not apart from it.
That perchance, when we gods die, He will bring dLeIaFtEh.
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