rage, rage against the dying of the light
Her eyes both kill and liberate me.
They recite a story that exceeds the expressive capacity of words: they gently, yet indelibly, carve their essence onto the caverns of my soul.
They paint a picture of a lone star amidst the backdrop of the pitch-black sky. Behold — how it courageously contends against the raging of the night; hard-pressed on all sides, yet not crushed.
They sing a song of old, in a language of suffering understood only by those who have ever cried out with a groaning too deep for words. A dialect of loss that courses through the veins of survivors who pressed on despite all the unspeakable tragedies that befell them. They cling onto hope in the form of a battered, bloodstained compass that will prove to be instrumental in guiding others — just as broken and weary as themselves— back home.
Her eyes both kill and liberate me.
