This life is only a sentence in our novel’s expanse,
a string of letters connected to form something concrete within the cosmos.
Riddled with commas, marking the transition from one phase of life to another,
we are confronted with the chance to reconcile or depose when affronted by others.
This experience is marked occasionally with a semicolon,
signifying the chance to end the sentence, though the author decides to continue; the words to come after, every bit as important as those that came before.
And when we are finally presented with a period, the natural point of closure to a thought, we hesitate,
because we are unaware that the ending of our sentence is not equivalent to the ending of our story.
We have a boundless tale to discover beyond this, and an infinite joy awaiting us.
We begin a new sentence, penning words of our own creation.
We take a deep breath,
and we continue.