It’s okay to stumble along the way.

Standing is not walking. It is preparation for departure or resistance to enemy advance.

In the meeting of my mind and words there was a flurry of wings and a fair amount of birdly tweets and chant repeats saying something about bells. The swells fell upon our sails threatening to rip the cotton stitching. We looked to deep and sky wondering if tomorrow would ever peak above horizon.

In the burning sands our wishes finally melted into little glass crystals smashed upon the rocks at three paces. The shattering harp called our hearts back to promise and a joint repair of all things wounded, rotten or shredded. In the fury of the spinning clock we marched because running seemed frightful and remaining still was ill advised.

The artillery found my ears ready for another blast. Seeing lips moving. Knowing the silence a long forgotten friend our constitution crushed in the battery of unending report. We were torn and drawn to quarters looking to the moon as alternate escape for we had lost the path to success in our current understanding and predicament.

The tears would not heal the chastening cacophony and thunder. In thrills and shaking spines we leapt from stone to shore hoping that the ground would not remain indifferent. our footing found nursery rhymes and ballads sworn for generals and men of valor, but nothing solid remained especially within our plummeting stomachs.

Courage left. It escaped with the wind at dawn, cold, tired and bereft of anything resembling honor. We fought on not to live but to show them the fury of our expiration. In fighting we found the peace that had escaped us in squabble. We were now men with nothing, having fought for naught with no intention or good ideas to support our continued effort.

Again I charged the mountain telling it to remove itself and find the bottom of ocean’s deep. It answered in laughter claiming something about knowing Paul, but wondering who sought to order its displacement. In folly I stood and railed against the whispers of dawn. Claiming the pinks and blues of daylight were laughable reminders that we had lasted in continued pursuit of man’s greatest folly.

What beauty has been or that which etched upon the board of memories ripe? What leeward pause interrupted our bad or indistinguishable contemplation? What rage employed found launch with the armaments of wonder? No drawing board only blind, berserk madness mixed with proclamations and commitments to love and ever after. In repose we delighted.

How frail the measures of man’s achievement. How dim the light of altered creation within the aspirations of the puny and brutality of the large. How false the honesty and covenant of men who knew not the Love of God. Into what abyss may we drop these things to see them gone forever? Into what fiery inferno may we find them destroyed never to be consoled or brought to light or conversation? At the end of whose dream will they lay unfettered and unfulfilled for reason?

Look my heart is no man’s or woman’s dream. It is the fire sparked by the fears and promise of everlasting. There is no right or wrong when plunging into the hot and cold waters of experiential recasting. What I am I always was made new by the fires and furnace of a hand beyond my own control. I am and will forever be an outcome of His wanting. To rage or remain silent on the hills, valleys and sands that temper my condition for existence and aspiration to spend a long day with God.