100 Words Only
What of fate and faith? While they embrace, hold hands, which rules the other? This perpetual thought is a silent cancer that creeps within, like rust that never sleeps. Should they drift off into slumber, the dark-grey melancholy wakes them. Before their cries reach a fevered pitch of malignancy, they dance the last tango, what if and if only. Loyal duty and service to this thought wavers, to what purpose does it serve, and to what end? Lost days pass, the finish line inches ever closer, what of the final moment? Grace reserved, wishes fate and faith to be kind.
“Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day’s chalking.”
― Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace