Thus Wrote Abraham

There was a feeling of eternity in that sweet, serene caress.
Ethereal grace,
now a tethered canvass with splotches of black ink.
We can’t efface these marks of hurt.
They won’t go away.
Within the frame it was revealed that it was limping, that poor thing.
It had a presence of its own, it had grown to bear prowess.
It was once the scaffolding and the pillars.
The shelter and the place to comfortably tuck in.
Now it has been killed, suffocated and engulfed in flames set around it.
Dances around a circle, a ritual that entertained something outside of it.
I saw it whimpering towards a way out, it wanted to leave.
Its soft pearls of ambition muted with despair, feeble and perishing.
Mortally wounded, it knew its fate, and it reached for flowers nearby.

“A butterfly may one day be deprived of resting on these flowers, it won’t even know what it lost.”

It seems our fates were written all over scribbles on the wall by innocent, fertile minds, 
Formless cradles of painful stretches.
Uncontrollable urges, insatiable desires.
Those eternally bleak nights, what would happen next?

Neglect of a nascent organism, tearing its blanket apart.
One day it all stood still, the next it all fell into place.
What is place? What was home?

That incorporeal essence, bonding everything.

It’s gone now.

We embellished the marrow of our purpose,
gorgeous and seductive, a key to the unknown.

It was too heavy to carry.

Ephemeral strokes of vision guide it away.
It sits alone now, in a different space, in a distinct time, in trembling hands.