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