Heavy in passions and sweetness. Laden not with burden but comforts of slow steady decrease in fire and sweat. Too intent and latent in progress. Words are often the shelter of my regret. Willful and wanton, left to guidance sans recourse in the heavenlies. What is power if it controls nothing especially the wielding hand of self?

This is a road through miles of dust and willow. Weeping and saturated with sand crunching crystals in course teeth. As the wind wipes the stains of our tears from the hourglass. How measured our respect when time and sound never saw a bow or heard a gestured allegiance? Were we simply present for the trophy’s distribution? Did we call this our home when steel met steel and knives broke bone of heart and head?

This is not a race worth the winning. This battle for ideas and ground that nobody finds it worthy to step forward in their defense. For what walls will men bleed their life into ground for its founding and sustainment? Will the eyes of children remember the love that spared few and forgot the names of heroes fallen? Will the idea of fealty to the King die with superior opposition? Is this the day for unbreakable will and men made for eternity?

One ounce, a speck, flake or spark is all that I possess before time counts me food for its dinner. Last bits given, handgrip, planted foot and thrusting leg to the surge of evil against us. When they roll free from atop walls slippery to bounce in the valley below. Smoke and fog clears, flags unfurled to signal the life remaining. Too counseled and weary the shout. All indifferent to the loss and the cost it would take in the dying.

We were not myth, but men, forged for the cannons of Christendom. Never to take but to resist the onslaught of hell’s fury knowing no quit, no failure, only victory promised so long ago in crimson trial and surrender. We are reborn. Fed by the fires that constructed ebb of ages. A fables true be told of giants against whom men stood courageous. Falling soundly to the last breath of flesh, awakening on the other side of dawn. To hear fine words or shrivel into the arms of darkness and fury.