Pinnacle reached, letting my eyes collect the wilted slope of boulders and trees above the fray. Bluebells and goldenrod reaching for the last few licks of sunlight. What gasp brings fear as night approaches, one where the work is finished. What mourn or tears are found in waking without cross to bare or road to march?

To eyes of fire I kneel in wait. Clarity, purpose now. The holy right of dream and dance to lift up hearts to heaven. Perfunctory pleasures given ripe to sow the seeds of fruits beyond description. Into days without counting our thoughts are conformed to motivators yet whispered. A day without a consuming night.

No urgency, no quizzical wrinkles on forehead breached. Bathed in light. Brought up on the gold of ages old, foretold by children admonished for their foolish tales of heroes and bygone worlds. This is not dream, but the concrete of mind melded in the purposes and powers of laws beyond my own reckoning.

We flourish in the falling sands of time. Turning heads meet the day that rose to save all from the shadows of a slanderous mouth and cankered heart. Scooping handfuls of the stars to carry close to breast knowing fully the cards are played. Winning what? A thought, a vision captured in the imagination of dreaming child?

This is not strategic grip upon the chaotic gravel underfoot. Oh waves of intention and mastery be forgotten by the simple drip of water upon the bricks of converging idea. What governs the quest to be found verdant even when their is no air, light or hope of rising from ashes or sealed beneath the streets of man?

Names, written to be read in smile at days to come. Tears rendered into the precipice of no return dried before they find ground. What glory comes from bad decisions pondered or righteous deed left a thought? What ground planted, war won or duty pleasured? We who will see the stars fall, awaiting Judgement.