Obsession.

It’s not the blank page that I fear
It’s not even fear that keeps me away

I am consumed by the thought
That no matter the strain or the strife,
These will never live up to this…
This ancient obsession,
This cyclical old thing.

How could I possible compete against dead bones,
And especially against the devastating tide of new ones?

Then there are my lucky stars, who’s
Praises I’ve built a habit of thanking

A boundless gratitude for the infinitesimal
That live today — and not in opposition
Of such spellcasters, who delight my spirit,
Break my heart, and scorch the earth
With their hexes and charms

All the while, the question was never
“Can I ever defeat the oppressive congregation?”

No, because it has been and will always be
A question beyond that which seeks to destroy,
Which requires more courage than anyone has to ask
“What will life be like afterward?”

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