Roses and dew whilst reminders view tasks and tender as the day so brief. Belief the only thing separating living from the sands of time and trouble. A bubble, a circumstance lingering for the moments that we were meant to carry. Tarry for a wink, think upon the things yet known, alone in our return to everlasting.

Quest so far and deep into nowhere that maps and mages sing songs of its beginning. Without end we bend logic and the rules of space, setting pace alongside the moons and mountains high. To start again and run the trails of lands yet ventured while dreams become real and mass fashioned fast in rhythm of each string.

Songs not written but recalled befell the glory of the painted saints. In August passion plenty the mints ring deep impression, each session planned yet flowing from the realm of possibility. Chosen, frozen and smoldering in fires far the belly of man and thought simmering in the glimmering dawn of which we yet sing.

Seconds if that is apt description into which understanding plunders we fall. One and all taken by the rivers that sweep dust from the universe. We rehearse for the loving dance when the kindred meet their Captain. Sown to the fabric outside time where history and mystery meet our hope, relieving peace both set to bring.

Words, found deeper than the breadth of man’s small will, to fill the void of doubt and mend the holes or tears in converging intention. Not to mention ideas lost in the bastion of brevity and merit. To inherit all things yet never increased of person or pride forgotten. The rotten replaced by all things new, poison gone with bite and sting.

Fertile not fatal born of immutable promise and vows that never dwindle, where time measures life but not the length of love. Above all things, ever mountain down we bathe and bask in unending faithfulness. We are remiss to remember the struggles of forgotten pain while relieved in joy of the pain found in eternal mourning.