I do not dream in apprehension of coming turmoil but revel in the release of my reflections. Caught up in the maelstrom of my guerrilla instinct, camouflaged by waiting crowd I inspect their faces for tells and wrinkles given to all narcissistic projects. Outside the burden of my own resolve I find the turmoil of present company, purchased or manufactured by those things that lengthen or shorten men’s lives. We sink or sail not by wind alone but by the disciplined effort of our quest. Some be more valiant than most but all are found in the righteous or indignant representation of our making.

For what post have I been designed, assigned or pastured beneath the revenant moons of man’s understanding? What dangers are intrinsic to my folly? Or must I go forth into the unchallenged beyond to find the demons of my displeasure? Calculus, figured in my head as I manipulate the starts, the oceans and night’s offering of romance and frequency. Is this truly a thing of man’s kindling, a fashioned fire born of the twigs of my anger, broken, torn, relegated to the warmth of my shins and ankles? Where have the rivers led if I must never find fulfillment in their following?

What better purchased parchment has accepted ink from quill stick? The words of enemies vanquished, valley’s crossed and mountains mastered as testimony to my argument of greatness not evidence of my gratitude. Of Eternity’s Dream I am no master, fledgling, failure, perhaps artist with unknown colors or imagination impure I ride the waves of my own pride as they rise and ebb toward indifference. Selected, hand picked by a palm I do not answer. Gripped by my own script, seeking headlines, deadlines and whimsical wonder from a cauldron full of nothing but the smelly socks of self calamity.

To field I pray, in pastures of men who knew my mastery to run from prey and fowl, never knowing owl or pleasant waves of midnight. In Passing to all prominence I venture a boorish man’s whisper, egging on the mockers and fools who would counsel me otherwise. This is not dessert cold but angry strong drink of ill gotten word and envious or odious reason. Found flocked among the penchant ravens, dark and fair esteemed as pious messengers of the nether edges of universal contempt. In their chatter and willful conviction the keys to my freedom lay displayed for all with keen eye and heart of light.

Where must he run to escape pursuit of self unpleasantry? Swallowed up by improper thinking and undisciplined word, never taking actions for fear of further revelation. Mumbling in quiet against the overreaches of the dark, talons scraping the rooftops as they descend to pluck my wanton corpse from parapet. I will gain the pinnacle and in that moment find myself stricken with the reality that comes to all embracing the glory of their own burdened reflection. Feet permanently strapped to a broken board riding waves of my own making. There is no hope without someone to believe in. Lodged between the widgets of the would be’s and virile marches to discover validation and purpose we reside in the unhappy pages of those left unamused or craving.

This is not the quest for gold or treasures old, but the misery of man seeing in finality his own disassembly. Smashed upon the rocks or carefully dissected by reason and rhyme the parts of humanity strewn out in workspace, we are all taken to account by wisdom and temporality. This is not a dream of my making but the mastery of a man who never much fancied displeasure. In the conquest of my folly I met my making in that place where watches and clocks find adjustment and synchronicity.