“If we meet—“ and then he faded again, and kept on fading, until there was nothing left of him to hold back the Great Dark descending on the world, except his words.¹

 And the Great Dark did descend,
has descended,
again and again.

Each time the world finds a savior
Death eventually steals the presence,
stills the voice,
plunges us into the Great Dark of mourning.

We emerge eventually,
sensing that a new savior has come,
for now.

With the death of each savior
we are left with the words,
words that comfort and inspire.

Perhaps language is the only god we need—
the only one that doesn’t die.

¹Mark Twain: A Life by Ron Powers