Was

The most dangerous time for self reflection
was in the sallow afternoons of late July
when the pine-beetled forests donned flames
like Nephilims' gloves and waved goodbye to themselves

Gunmetal dusted skies that were not quite right;
a hint of soot in the sinuses as Gaia expelled an almost endless outbreath,
looking for relief and repose

Conclusions reached here were by their very biology jaundiced;
how could they not be when thought's breath was imbued with
carbon, the last coal-black sigils of a thousand rabbit warrens built over centuries
and ingested in minutes by the Fourth element

He reasoned in these times that there was control in lack-of-control
A power that was surely made available when he was truly surrendered

~he was not so much wrong, as incomplete~

The power in surrender was the currented expressions *through* him, of course, not *of* him
The relief an abnegation of self ~
Not a restructuring of ego's ghosts' ghosts

The recognition was seeded across years
Mirrored in his relationships and echoed through his mentors ~
Until one day, a time he could have sworn was two breaths too late ~
He realized;
Surrendered surrender,
and Was.