The One Who Wished
Not all prayers are spoken. Some are lived.
He wished he could ease the pain As quickly as he caused it. He wished he could see reality— Or to make his wishes real. He wished to do no harm. He wished to edify all he touched. He wished so many things. Most of all, he wished for the happiness Of those he loved.
But broken tools, wielded by A flawed worker, Can only do damage— No matter the nobility of intention.
He had once felt a capable craftsman, But time—and the pressure of a life For which he was not suited— Had left him fractured, Shifted from his base At an awkward angle.
Where once there was Symmetry and balance, Now there were only juxtapositions— And tangents.
In a dream, He wandered through a silver wood, And there he found a vixen, Sitting calmly in the moonlight, Her eyes like glowing amber. Her name was Ashwyyn.
He asked her— Quietly, desperately— To help him understand his nature.
The fox tilted her head, Tail curled neatly around her paws, And she said:
“He who charges through the china Of beautiful hearts Leaves wakes of destruction. Like a small star drifting through A chocolatier. Like a broken bagpipe At a festival of love. The thrill of recklessness Comes at a cost.”
“And thus it has always been. And thus it shall always be.”
And so he wept.
And he prayed.
He prayed his tears might soften the world, Water its brittle soil. That sorrow might grow tenderness, And help him cherish beautiful things. He prayed for soothing of The hearts upon which he Tread so carelessly. He dreamed of green fields Where beautiful souls Could sit in peace, Satisfied with existence.
The vixen stood, Stepped lightly toward him, And said:
“The greatest life you can live Is one where the least harm is done, And the greatest number of lives Are made better by your hands.”
And so he wished. And he worked. And he wished. And he worked.
And though his story is not yet final, He would love, And he would learn to be loved, All his many days.
And still, He would wish. For wishing— Wishing never expires.
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