Mythical argent repose. Born of a dream. Made perfect in ambulation. What questions are answered, that were asked by man? The trim, the name, The Word. A bird without wings. Does it too dream of flight?

Touch the edge of tomorrow. In brilliant moments of sight beyond the wall. Semi permeable? Membranes of passage into the DNA of humanity. What then is mark foresworn? Made to stop the blessings of lost judgment.

Did we see them coming? Yonder hill where watchman slept. Trumpets and shouts forthcoming will never be heard till sounded. Into august we pass seeking harvest and rest. While the motors or engines of our rivals consume the plenty and the pure.

These are not the magical whims of the greatest among us. They are the convenient and corrupt conniving’s of those lesser seeking to pronounce the false king. What happened to the open eyes of discerning folks?

And to the torch we bring our candle the way forward broad and panoramic. Mystical and inspired by the awe of ages passed. We dwell among giants not as kings sent for our acceptance but mutants to sustain the fallen word of those once perfect found broken.

Tread light, the damsel whispered. Do not pummel or abuse but touch with gentility and hope. For there are tender hearts within. Presumptive reasoning and solution. Never chosen by those with carefully, meditative love.