"This is the end," my mind says. "We are rotting like the leaves."

"Just a season," my heart says. "Just a season."

"No, we rot," my mind says. "We rot like the leaves."

"Just a season," my heart says. "New leaves are born in the spring."

"We don't want to be new," my mind says. "We want to be whole."

"We mourn the fallen pieces now so that we can be whole in the spring," my heart says. "Just a season."

No longer handless, so I wipe the stars from my eyes.
No longer lungless, so I suck in fresh air.

I march forward now.

And that'll be the last time I let someone else carry my sword.