Last of the Ascension (Verse) - 2
Carried
He had chosen today—
as if timing could grant permission.
He had slipped past his patron—
not unseen, only unopposed.
Power, he told himself—
could be reclaimed.
As if it had ever belonged to him.
He lingered in the light—
older than the place that named itself here.
Breath came slowly—
as if borrowed.
Then—
his hand moved before thought—
searching the pocket.
The mala answered.
A soft rattle—
consequence, still intact.
Puka shells—
each one unwilling to forget him.
He closed his fist around them—
as if pressure could undo memory.
Each shell held a life—
bent by his will, or by his absence.
Carried.
Not resolved.
Yes.
Today would be the day—
he would make it right.
Or make it matter.
He drew breath—
thin with intention.
“Let’s not screw this up.”
“Too late.”
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