We are almost done.

And now for something completely different…

The drug of life’s trials is quick and I am overtaken.  My thoughts spin wildly today in a sea of uncertainty and concern.  Concern for the seed of my loins, concern for my brothers and kin, concern for those I would love, concern with the melancholy ringing of the great silver bells that hang aloft from the Devil’s monastery.  What kindred voice is this ringing in mine ears?  What soft speaking demon pours its poison honey into my lips as I offer them so readily, so pleadingly?  What will you have of me fate, thou wretched whore thou temptress and tart?  What have you of me?

So many arrows pierce my skin, tied to horses with different places to go.  They pull at me with the strength of an oxen team and I am rent in all directions.  Why stand I alone in the midst of this storm while all I hold dear is tossed about around me and above my quaking and fevered head.  And I feel as though their hands reach out to me, their eyes plead with me to bring resolution.  Is that not my part in this farce?  Has that not always been my place?  I am he who brings resolve, I am the patient confrontation that brings you out of the pit am I not?  What have you of me?

I draw my mistempered sword to seek the foe of this fray but I find none, only air that this blade whistles impotently through and the concerned looks of friends as the steel swirls above their heads.  Would you all fear me if you knew the deepest reds of the mad blood that stirs in my head?  What have you of me?

I have no barometer for these moments of verbose introspection.  I have no warning when my own words will spirit me away into intellectual meanderings that confound, confuse, and concoct rancor or succor for the fires of these killing fields.  I lose myself in words sometimes, and I think of the titles so errantly thrust upon me.  Balladeer Bard… My good Wizard, my deluded sage and guru, you speak too highly of one whose mad tea party goes on in silence behind his eyes.  Woe to me that I should be so easily pricked by the tainted stab of muse and methodology.  My thoughts wander over great distance of space and time and I awash ever in a sea of escapist verbiage and readily made armchair philosophies.  Aye me, I don’t belong here.  Words are as much a coping mechanism as fear fraught with doubt and the chill hand of guilt cold as death.  I escape into them for they give comfort and cover for the tumult that boils under my own dermal covering, the acrid stench of my iniquity perfumed by the censor of prose and metaphor.  But such is this day.  What have you of me?

I speak to my closest brother the Eastern Wind.  He always blows warm comfort on these postulations with wisdom and care carried from where the sun rises to where I stand on the Western most shores.  But his words are troubled and my worries doubled.  We speak of wounds and healing, we speak of kingdoms and traitors.  I try with fumbling words to sooth the heat of the Eastern Winds.  Do not vex yourself too great my goodly brother.  Dawn follows night as surely as flight must turn to fight.  Remove rancor and allow the succor of knitting flesh to heal all wounds.  For to keep holding to thin air is to cut new wounds each day.  The quiver of your thoughts finds mark within the red circle, harm to heal and tear apart to seal.  And in all things this will work for the greater good of all.  No more have I for you today fair East.  What have you of me?

My thoughts stray again to the cool Northern Waters, so full of tumult, so fraught with shifting tides, never settling into the dead calm of clarity.  I am the earthen stone of the West, and how often I am tossed about in this Northern Sea.  How much eroded and cleansed in its wake.  She is a tidal wave with no direction, and the South offers no succor for these troubles, and the East Wind blows around her without embrace.  And I am merely the shifting earth of the Western shore, and I cannot manage the sea as my sands are carried out into its embrace.  What have you of me?

And somewhere the Earth is fertile, the Waters are fresh, the Fire is warm, and the Wind blows sustain onto the nexus of elements.  And there grows a field, there grows a garden, and there is where all things are made known, and all things are made whole, and all questions can be put to rest.  There is where the sky blossoms in whites and blues, and the crickets chirp happily in the cool dew soaked eve.  There is Shangri-La, there is the nexus, there is the source, and there I cast my eyes even as its vision fades against the changing of the winds and the sea.  Oh that we should all find the sustain and succor of such a place, far from the avarice of this tainted sphere.  Aye me, what have you of me?

Till Monday…

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