Maybe your next step will be your last, but you don’t “get” to know beforehand. And instinct is absent.

The floor under your feet will tell you after the fact whether it was ever, at all, true.

And truth, it has been queried, “What is truth,” but I ask you, what is trust? What is trust?

Trust, kept buoyed by hope, took forever to fall away, and these believing eyes with it.

Expectation is only of the coming eve’ and the promise of exasperated sleep, and I praised it more than once.

One morning revealed the night had stolen the vestiges of trust, breaking free all that hope bound.

The only evidence of either, some sense of un-nameable shock. Something’d been there, but what?

Then life’s replaying of horror: The all that was and the all that’s gone. Each breath, each day, each night.