We live today with expectation of “normal”, our routine, predictability as this day unfolds. We have a sense of self normally stable and constant. Until:
“I am” based on Belief:
The force which shapes and drives my life.
It’s stored in my brain’s golden sheath,
With edge keen as a knife.
But when life decrees Grief,
That blade shatters like falling ice;
The sheath is stolen by Grief’s thief
And what is left, I splice.