I stand in wrangle of the thought,
Chopping choices laid amidst all I've made.
Seeing in the prism'd prison of my ways,
What remains despite the loss.
Despite the toll of absent kin,
Which weekly, always, rings.
What remains besides the weight,
Besides it's bowing touch,
Stands uplifted with what's regained.
With what's reground, reformed and blissful.
And what remains, waits.
Untouched and untouchable,
Honed and cleansed by what,
This life makes, possible.