Advent

I cannot tell you that
    things will be fine.

I cannot tell you that
    there will be a better tomorrow.

The truth is,
    even if
those things are true,
the grip of terror
    still holds fast.

In those darkest depths
    where naught penetrates
lift your eyes
    to the enveloping
        and seek the coming
            of your next self

and reflect upon this missive soul:
likewise lost
    in another place,
        in another time,
    next to you,
         far from you,
searching,
    hoping,
        yearning,
            despairing -
consumed
    by the prospects
        of unjust misfortune
            and the divine providence
                that drove such torrential reigns upon our souls
-- lost yet
in prayer
    to you,
    for you,
    now and next.

All souls weep
Amidst the laboring pains
Of some next selves -
The most anguished tears
    for The Next that ... ... ...
Laying what was
    Into the dusty chest of memory
Angered
    by such cruel work
Resentful
    of the unflinching task master
Anxious
    from what remains
        and will be
            and is lost

These words, our hands
Through time
    and space
        and impenetrable dark
To find you,
    to hold tight
Though you suffer, lonely
You are not alone
And together
    stare down the enveloping
Hoping
    for you,
        those you love,
            all next selves,
                and peace