It's intrepidity,
is resignation to a certain fact.
But it's haunting, too.
A countenance negated,
when for once a blank stare lives
as the mind in that moment,
with all blood let
and costly service rendered.
There is no roadmap for spells
concluding enduring sagas,
and the intrepid know that.
I'll admire from afar
and wonder on the strength of
those survivors as they quarter
amid the spent minefield.
They might say there is
no strength in tattered ends,
all life is a process
of will and action.
They might say that standing still
in the face of the unmitigated
is an admission of human frailty.
Respectively, I say:
Let me admire.
Let me reflect.
Stillness is strength
especially in the hour of the unmitigated.
Philessatry 