Walking slowly through the dream. Interpreting what little I may gather, finding places meant for greater men to sit and rest a bit. In the sandals of the Lordly I prepare. Having left behind any compunction or profiteering from the wisdom given freely.

What launch my boat has found? What standards bear, what monstrosities undone? Who determines nobility when bloodline and behavior are greater moorings to things that spin the universe? Who says what being complete has always been about?

By all right and embossed ribbon presented they have pronounced us lesser men. The dawn having prepared the few to look down upon the many. What blessings counted rare are frequently offered for the telling of our own tales?

Where do all the greenest grasses grow if not in the pleasant moments of my own belonging? Is satisfaction always beyond the next fence or better argument having proven the days are wanton? By nature I include the beloved in the moments precious.

They tell a tale of a forgotten man who was never known but they tell it with such fervor. Regaling themselves with words lived by other men, yet made weighty in the quest to make hearts feel wonder and passion, believing themselves included in the sky above the Maker.

Not inclined to be anywhere at any time or day I find the pleasure of simply walking, calmly through the things of spirit. Dandelions no less impressive than the finest crimson rose. What scholarly rag tells people of my mastery in things they cannot understand?

I alone may make this road amazing. Two may ride and ten follow but only one may make the hope real and the pain a trusted partner. The process is the end and beginning. To find the gold among the garland and the coal when dark is gone and light beckons onward.