The Contingent

All the cords connecting us
Are thin and frail.
All the fibers and filaments
That weave us together,
Illuminate us,

Depend on
Rest:
That diadem
In the crown
Of brave
Being,
That wraith
That beckons
From the shore of
The ever-shifting
Now.

Let those whose cords have broken
Go on to the
Now
That is only
Always.

Let us mend the brittle braids
Of those who ache to hold on,
And bind up the wounds
Of the weary.

There is no healing
Where there is no rest.

Bring silence,
Bring light:
Only what is sheltered
Grows strong;

Only she that
Is held
Is helped;

Only he that
Surrenders
Can at last
Overcome.

--Mr. Gobley