The World of Myth Magazine

A light, a beacon, silver bright, searing an after image
of your face before me, missed, never forgotten.
Your home is my heart, each beat the measure
of the staccato rhythm I now live with, fast, slow,
slower yet, to finally stutter, then to stop.
Should I take that final step into the abyss?
I know your hands will be outstretched
curved and warm, steady and sure, to catch me.
In life I never doubted you, I could not know
that you would go before me, to float, then settle
featherlight, and wait, on a breath, caught in time.

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