DecPoWriMo 22

Even our stories 
Are warning us
Their repetition
Is no way to stave

Off loss while
New stories are
Being born every
Second we await

The telling of
Familiar breath
Candlelit gossamer
Paved afternoons

Where we live to
Bring back to life
Perpetual potential
For the sake of

Redeeming the world
An empty cradle
Carrying blank words
Echoing the shock

Of the word made