After all It is the little ones that do us in. The little griefs – of fingers smudged with the ashes of dreams lost of the ineffable never made effable of stone dragons in place guarding our hearts.

Tender be the chambers of our beating, soft with the musk of unwed flowers yet wet with their becoming.

After all grief, if not wet – is it still grief? Is the silent howl of the inward wolf as potent as the shining rivulet on a cheek, or more potent still, the howl that was not heard?

After all what mirrored glimpse of reality is the fracture in which flowers grow? What life is it for ivy that must crack the stone to climb

What is there left after all is done away with? Words said as doors relocked Pathways left untrodden Lifetimes never examined For after all there is the none.

The sheer joy of terror coming home to roost in the heart of one never spread open

Yet, after all is it better to be unexamined – crossed from the threshold with lips bitten back and tongues curled in and tragedies never realized?

To be seen is ultimately to err but to never err… well, little one, to never err is to never have an after all...