A man walking down a narrow path between light and darkness. In the realm where shadows blend with light, A path winds forth, both dark and bright. Footsteps tread where the lines do blur, A silent walk, a subtle stir. Beneath the sun, the righteous bask, In moon's pale glow, the questions ask. Each step a choice, a chance, a will, To rise with dawn or shadows fill. The light, it warms, the dark, it can teach, Balance found in what each may reach. Not all that's bright is

A raven, watching over a city. Always watching... And waiting... Not all entries arrive as stories. Some surface in fragments. In Market Hollow, where the chimneys lean Like tired men confessing to the dusk, There came a thing with eyes too keenly blue For any honest bird of soot and musk. It perched where sermons died upon the air, And watched the town as if it knew them through. They named it ill. They whispered it was sent Ahead of grief, a courier dressed in night. Old He