Past that memory

Sweet Seraphine,
in the quiet darkness of tonight,
floating so peacefully away,
away and away.
And do I notice that slight bitterness that so lightly pulls
you from this dream, so silently
draws your eyes back in time?
Why yes, but I pray you, dwell not forever in that place,
tarry not in the quarries of sorrows,
for there is an echoing silence that bids you to rest.

And let not that sadness be driven harshly,
but kept well,
like a piece of glimmering nostalgia,
a keepsake, well-rounded by time,
and slightly threadbare,
dusty in the attic, visited in reveries
and moments of necessary reflection.

Sweet child, your destiny will wax and wane,
and the universe will force you randomly through its testing-sieve:
through pores of passion, tunnels of anguish,
passages of glory, open fields of equanimity,
and you shall carry those scars, wear those medals upon your breast,
and each shall bear witness to your life.
This whole and nothing less will define you.