Nonsense?

She heralds the darkness with a call that is at once sweet and strange. A dimming of light, turning as if in autumn.

The crisp sweetness tasted then, the sharp and whiteness, acid, acrid, till it’s done.

We can but speak in whispers, no louder than this. No more the broken dreams of memory, only the undertow of home. Voices and laughter; the aching sweetness that is, that was, that can be and will.

It is home to you now, home to your soul; the chaotic gypsy hearts we breed. Curled and curved around you with so much to do and so many places to belong. We are the sweet tales, we are the night visions, we are the blessed acres of space where wildness may still bloom, the ever free who would surround thee.

If it is a memory then let it be the wash of truth that bares your soul. Ruthless distortions swept aside to leave you bare. Whatever we do, whoever we are, has reason and though there are no mistakes that may not be forgiven, all will be accounted for and better understood. What it means to you who holds on, who would avoid its eyes, what it means is to be counted, accounted as the responsible.

Forgiveness, disillusion, the one we thought you were not changed but grown.

Stand by your convictions and let them bloom, understand them, speak for them. Life is a steady stream that goes where it will. Who are you to move against the tide? Who could?