A Thing To Prize

The sense of loss transcends accounting, hovering instead as that one gift itself uncountable, to rank with heaven's stars as candles for a cosmosphere that blesses with its questions, wrenches anguish from its cursed calm, and dies perpetually before the face of sins undreamed. No savior in his mortal frame might fare eclipse of that, indeed personify a paradox so terrible that for the curvature of time all other entity may fall away before the might of such pure frailty. Presumption fails, and it remains that loss alone is genuine among the treasures of the mine. Its power is infinite to wring the heart, swing back the gate of pride and open wider still another door once spurned, a fool's magnificence called love. ~