Is it this love Lord for which I was yet made? Cannot figure the price that’s paid for fee of entry for such a one as me. To touch madness brings sorrow and the white blemished pain of memories forgotten. All to the semblance of reason. Dawning now, as harp plays nightmare’s screaming wisdom. Into the depth of joy we have found deliverance for such things as shall not compare to night’s fall, windswept reason or snow gentle quiet.

The babes toying in the background. Yelping twice at frustrations hold upon our struggle. There are none as we, none as longing heard by Father’s, to be told another day to wait on. Sing to the stars of daylight for they know nothing but night and their own reflection upon the Moon’s of midnight. Where is the hourglass to time me as I dance to chime, rhyme and rhythms carry water to that dusty day? Parched in frozen forgotten movement and cadence found caught by tail and plundered.

Tomorrow’s wheels are turning to find the sun and capture half of wonder. Leaving all for the maidens and to whisper of the dream that found by empty brook while splashing in their laughter. Calm as ordinance passes over to welcome flares and bombastic answer to angers free and unforgiven offense. These are the days with dark that rivals vacuum. And to sing without words or hum without hope of desperate science that will save us. Are we looking clearly into future. A dawn of eras without quarter and charming midnight slumber.

Rolling wicker, scraping on papaya summers and fruits of Winter’s wonder toward the harvest call for answer to the quandary. Questions passed around as porridge for the tip of spooned out aching. Reaching beyond stored value to morals of the mourning frost having tasted of the sunny side. Drops of moonlit dew dancing on curvaceous acres with coraled seas and baby blues or amber saucers. These things not meant for man taunt the questions offered, perhaps the tender of the purchase will buy some explanation. Not oft familiar but seldom seen by pupil.

To dance we go, whirling in our days infrequent burden. To shed light upon the freedom of collected wound or unwelcome tear. Flight of the welcome spirit to circle halfway to tomorrow only missing the moment when here meets there and experiential treasure. With pleasure it seems we dream of things we cannot measure. To the halls of seated souls and ghouls of our misunderstanding or direction lost by the brook of soulful capture. We are bid hurry as the time loses grip upon our making.