My Constance

I am indifferent to change. As the light of my ascension prevails my character, I adapt as well as I breathe. Moving unto higher destinations contains my spirit, leaving my will exposed to a tempering cold. Everything that shapes has crowned this blacksmith, who in turn has learned another craft atop her own. A tanner and a teacher becomes she, a doctor in matters worse without her experience. A woman begets her freedom to beliefs become traditional; wary of the modern beliefs surrounding her, aware that she hovers on the brink of constance belaying her confidence.

My conscious is omnipresent, breaking me of a single vision as they collide in this familiar kaleidoscope. This has caused my lilting eyes, leaning toward every color lest complacency fold me. Potential scolds my ever present litany, emboldening whereupon I urge my will toward one path or another. The morals I have squandered while living through my sins has engaged a new breed of values. Experience and belief has become one in the same. Theory is as useless as words without accuracy. Living what you believe as truth is my new plausibility.

I lose if I think there is another keeper of my soul, and I am a fool and pressed to indefinites if I believe there is another creator responsible for my fate. None other than I is responsible. I am solid and I am whole. Everything else is left to possibility, and I can ill afford to invest my faith in that which remains invisible.