بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

Hollow tip, 

not quite a gun or its grip, just the edge of a point, can't tell where the front or back is, maybe these moments, like villains captured and homeless, waiting for bail, waiting to sing like birds, even though they're soulless. shards of time, mere seconds, lodged in veins, without escape or protection, traveling to the Emptied Chamber, filled with Absence, the stepchild in masquerade as emotion. somewhere here is tragedy averted, hope a flame rekindling, as my Future approaches, arms thought opened, but alas for these eyes, by the present obscured and absconded. such, dear friends, the nature and trial of trust, to know only what I can, and leave off thought of 'what I must'. so sight I rescind, though 'twas never mine to begin, began and belonging with Him, conviction now ally, though time seems enemy within. patience, my patience, be not hollowed or conscripted, leave off fighting to the ones demented or desisting, with you, perhaps, I may yet come to know again that Purpose.