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.

Chasing, not always blindly after those things which do not further. What mountains shall I gain and lands review that are not already within the purview of God’s eye on Creation? Is there some hope of escaping His domain and for what reason would I remove my lips from the cool waters of life, just to say that I had done something of my own? My choice is my volition, my intention my domain, my willful disregard of the boundaries of existence, my desperate attempt to say that I am anything but a man.

Make a thing, buy a thing, be given a thing by those who join me in vapid quest only to find myself in hopeless unanswered prayer to that object of my own desire. The only hopeless thing I have truly found is my relentless pursuit of the idols and trappings of a world headed for guaranteed trainwreck around yonder bend. In moments of stepping back walking away finding once again the skinny path of the world’s mockery I find my brilliance. I do not follow well. Even God, I have hard time mirroring.

What is a man to become but the outcome of the seed planted in him? What is my character, my fibre, my nature but that which comes from the Almighty’s crafting? How then may I be anything other than that which was determined in God’s reason and expectation? If I choose to be thief, brigand, reprobate, adulterer or life taker then I have demonstrated the Truth in God’s predestination of my damnation. I have not shown my powerful statement of disobedience by choice simply by becoming the man He promised I would be if I chose that path.

I have stepped away from God and each time find the same path, outcome and separation from prudence, blessings and righteousness. There is no there out there among the vain dreams that see me emperor of my own realm. Why would I tend fields with no sowing? And in the maintenance of those things which shall never bear fruit am I nonplussed by ignorance. Shouting and spitting into the winds of coming shadow, being silenced by my lack of fear I am found bearing nothing, believing nothing and with nothing so show or take with me to Gehenna, but the desperate attempts of a disobedient child to tell his Father that he never loved Him.

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.