Desperation presses its face to glass,
and mistakes the fog of breath for warmth.

Grief strides across a well-worn stage,
and drags its ill-fitting costume behind,
certain that its rehearsed suffering, once correctly beheld,
will inspire an audience to its feet.

But "I'm nothing without you,"
offers precisely nothing.

And real love would want more for its subject than that.

No one convinces a flower to bloom by begging,
or urges a god to bend low just to soothe their heart.

Build a self with depths, and heights, and hidden places,
with Convictions to defend or betray.

No one longs to explore a flat, grassy field,
but what won't they give to summit a mountain?
Or to delve into twisting caverns,
where might dwell either treasure or death?

You must make of yourself a conflagration,
a wildfire impossible to ignore.

Cast yourself as a thing of profound beauty,
your loyalty as a gift that you may well deny.

Storms gather with pressure, and heat, and opposing winds;
lightning is drawn to what dares to stand tall.


Penned by my hand on the 24th of Valnuary, in the year 1007 AF.