Picking at the insignificant stitch on the far corner’s of a tapestry that has been left to dust and dark. Giddy, a kid whose found the secret pantry where loves, chocolate and cookies have all been stored. There are no holes in time except the ones punched into it by the staplers of man’s attempt to avoid gravitation. So few to make the storm’s brew, so small a thing to believe or not believe that it is the ticket to and from eternity. Singing in the distance rhymes in rhythm with the drumming of this heart. Forgotten harmonies shall be restored and the wanton shall be bored with the calm of storm’s passing.

Into the night of dove’s errant flight too small the obstacles of attempted passage to grand the snares and teeth awaiting us in the dark of shadow. What will pushes umbrage to forgotten kings? Are the halls of sanctimony lost to squadrons of knight’s captured? In relief the infantile proceed to rhetoric and false pretense, hoping in their fearful repose to dispel the righteous from their doorways and porticos. What flashing brilliance the use of fear as public bludgeon though mistaken as indication to a machine gun pit of your position, windage and distance. So frightful the masked demon’s you employ yet to the courageous a signal to advance and once taken declare the misery of fallen foes.

Love’s Lost were never burdens but reminders of the road to reason and glory set before each of us. Into the story of this life I am thrown, barely found footing propels me to seek that which my heart finds lacking and if naught presents then to contentment’s door I find safe entry.. All the fray, swayed by evidence and papered purport dancing in the sport of the hunt but never prey. Saluted by wisdom’s beckoning chant of “find me” to save thyself. It is a factual challenge to the heart of those willing to live righteous that evil must be contended and never avoided except to plan ones next strafing pass. There are no men who stand bye watching the march of criminal’s intent who shall find home in the annals of men’s passage.

To disturb the bias certainty of wicked plans revealed I dive headlong, arm’s wide into the waiting staves of madness, screaming freedom’s bold praise. At the apex of assured failure I capture hidden victory again faithful in the hand unseen upon me. Not major, captain or king but boss nonetheless in making decisions beyond reason, station or pride. To find the halls of errant entry and secure the truth once lost in the hearts of our addled youth. We praise things written in the light that passes through the cells of men solidity, finding the infirm or cancer ridden genes and illuminating them for doctors reckon. This is not the road to alabaster pitchers and clay made pots standing free of projectile or times brutal message. This is the path to our truth in freedom from capture or misshapen mishandling by those with no love who cannot know its power unless touched by its unbeatable poise..