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Prose
of love and loss like angel’s song and
tiger’s fury, convey gentler days and a
quest for living: it breathes before me.
Sometimes in awe, I’ve stood witness to
gentle inspiration evolve into glory on
the run. And, if this be the choice of the
undecided, then forsaken me, for I too
sought the prize. Lives were revealed, I
tasted the Earth rich in my mouth, brought
forth on the wings of hope – and love -
love is always present. Without it, fear
is all that exists, and what purpose could
that serve? Except, of course, to keep
love and courage honest and true.
And
love, a most peculiar thing, it is
everywhere, in everything, and yet is
nothing at all - a vapor, an idea that ran
through me once, that calls from time to
time. It echoes through the hallways,
floating on the tongues of devils and
nurtured in the womb of sanity. Yet, I’m
neither sinner nor saint.
I’m the observer watching the
story unfold in the eyes of the innocent.
Providing commentary, a memento that we
were once here, in this great hall. And of
those that came before, I cannot say.
No,
I speak of the now, the melody of
accidental notes that draw me in,
compelling me to participate, whether I
choose to or not. And life waits not. How
sad are we, the mighty, victorious where
we stand, yet alone, afraid and posing for
the camera. Missing the panoramic view, we
attempt, in our own arrogance, to
orchestrate a concert of wild things.
Still the scented flower fills my nostrils
and the aroma of life is always present.
And, change comes, without warning. Chaos
prevails, in its perfect way, as it always
has.
So, in the shadow of life we recite prose of love and loss that fill our
heart, and enshrine our ego. Lambs are
sacrificed to the creatures of the dark,
and we, the mighty, still unable to
understand its purpose, are nevertheless
enriched by its process.
Flowers continue to bloom.
Copyright 2004 All Rights
Reserved
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