He walks along the tightest rope,
An aim unseen, as masked in smoke.
In gently walking razor’s edge,
The older mind he will avenge. In joy he meets the subtle pain,
A rift not gentle to maintain.
Could turn away, as well he should,
But splinters same as firewood. Endemic though, such a divide,
And warning more of former times.
To linger now in routine space,
Is warm enough, if out of place. By light of day and into night,
A quiet yet emphatic fight,
Endures the endless era brief,
A lucid end, but no relief.