In the Eagle’s High pitch whisper my heart had danced a thousand dreams. In the season’s desperate clamor had launched a hundred schemes, but the angles and the promptings were not so much in doubt of the carvings on the porch swing I had so clearly dreamt about.

The valley sitting lonely so verdant and so proud welcoming the wanton who are seeking calm and cloud. Find everything but fancy and man’s unwritten code to be eaten rather slowly with enlightened ala mode. The scant imagination it took to work it out is much to weak in wondering what reality’s all about.

I hazard understanding knowing what intelligence will bring. All the words of learning without comprehension of a thing. The days all smashed together and the nights so far to reach with nothing worth really saying and even less to teach. My lonely obligation to simply scream and shout what I knew from the beginning it was supposed to be about.

So preaching reformation and change through my intrigue as my ability to reason is saddled with fatigue. In justice and in morals I consecrate a thing when I haven’t either discipline and the truth of anything. In Spirit and in promise I hope that it is so but having neither characteristic in vapidity I crow. To fashion and formulate my deep intrinsic doubt of the reason for my promise and the utopia I tout.

In the sandals of a wise man I walk from here to there with my skin turned brown from sunlight and my scalp obvious and bare. From the frontal proximation of the memory remains the internal inclination to free them from worldly care. Unabashedly I counsel to pray my soul to wait when seeing no relief or sustenance to date. The fate is never weighty and the gaff most often clout. The scarcity of courage I must remain patiently in doubt.