An Ode to Grace
& if You insist; i will find a way, without Her
This began as four sentences written in raw grief. Six rounds of honest questioning later, and through a mountain of salt, this is what remains.
Worse than death was life without her: buried inside flesh that is dying, a ghost that wanders without rest, knowing she walks this earth betwixt these two eternities of silence - but not with me.
& if You insist i exist without her, then teach me to burn this pain as fuel, You magnificent mf.
She floats on air for me: despite the mud, eternally beautiful. This Grace, in my accounting, is what remains when truth, beauty, and justice are honestly added.
The questions that shaped it were not mine alone; the poem was honed through Socratic inquiry. Every cut, and there were many, came from the same test this platform asks of any claim: does the word carry the truth, or just decorate it? It turns out the method works on wounds too.
If you have lost your way, as I did, don't plug your ears. Lash yourself to questions and hear the internal song. The mast will hold. And yes, it's related to mom; we get it, mf.
The record, in full: What the hell · The weather inside.
The chair is open. Bring your own question and see what it becomes.
No account, no card, one exchange. Yours to keep.
Born in the Arena