John Denver is my guest on the porch,
Gently playing off to my right,
As we take in the morning before us.

Sky a spectrum of pastel blues and gentle oranges,
Clouds upon the horizon a regal purple,
Water rippling gently forward,
To lap upon the pebbled shore.

Bald eagle perched up in his nest,
Surveying this beautiful land,
An avian king of the lake,
His stance is one of grace and imperious splendor.

Drive hard through the night we did,
To arrive at our perfect morning scene,
To leave behind the abject horror of the concrete and rebar forests,
To this place where God would go to fish.

Gently swaying on this bench,
Listening to Denver's crowning tune,
Everything feels just right,
In the land of lakes so blue.

Someone seen before,
Your dark hair entrancing in the pleasant summer breeze,
In this place that seems both old and new.

Come a thousand miles,
To end up spellbound by your natural grace,
A look about you that invited natural curiosity,
With gentle eyes and kind words,
Quite literally causing me to stop in my tracks.

Kind words in a playful tone,
Heart a flutter,
Scaring the **** out of me in the process,
Not because you're trying to be hard to get,
But simply because you're so very hard to forget.

In my late night musings I'll imagine chasing after,
But that is after my painful trip back to the Midwest,
Leaving behind the town of tunnels and tea parties.

Thoughts turn inward,
As space between me and that haunting place is increased,
As a gentle rain begins to decend upon Seneca land.

Perhaps whatever messages I might have glimpsed of are all imaginary,
Or mayhaps you feel the same?
A corner to the great puzzle I didn't even know I missed.

At that great imaginary horizon of mine I can see just the tip of the obelisk to the east,
Silhouetted by the rising sun,
Standing as a marker for where I wish to be.

Sitting here alone,
Atop a pile of ash and burnt paper encased filters,
As Plant tells me of a girl long past,
Causing me to reminise.

Met by chance,
And instantly captured by your pure differentness,
The tint given to you by the city seemed to almost glow off of you in amber waves,
So different to what I was use to growing up in the Midwest.

Your starkness in the way you went about things,
Your personality drawing me deeper still.

Guilt I felt upon realizing what these sensations were,
For you were the sister to a man I could easily call a brother,
And tales told seemed somewhat tainted,
I knew some of your story without you knowing,
Like an invasion of privacy without doing anything wrong.

I'd come to visit you and the family,
My first trip to a place so large,
Everything so tall,
Nothing but in person did it injustice,
But alas I was only passing through.

I'd end up nestled into the mountains and lakes of the deep north,
And sometimes when flying I'd imagine I could just see the tips of the scycrapers on the horizon,
Like fingers on a hand waving a hello.

Plant has already left,
Waters, Gilmore, and Wright take his place,
Telling a most mournful tale,
The mound is growing quicker by the minute,
Teeth were unconsciously being ground.

When returning sometime later,
You could instantly see through the ruse,
Of the damage being hidden,
That the smile wasn't quite reaching my eyes,
But you said not a word,
For you knew I wasn't ready to talk.

I look away ashamed at our last meeting,
Hurting and lashing out,
Acting in a way quite opposite of the way I was raised.

I sit here now alone,
The guise long gone,
Leaving me with a parched throat.

Stepping out to the porch,
I look to the east,
To where the woods lay,
And imagine the glow of the city lights on the horizon,
So that New York Girl doesn't seem so far away.

Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the face's of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegiance given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out despite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warrior's words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the battered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.

Years have passed,
Time an enemy that cannot be conquered,
Leaving heros to be quietly forgotten.

The Prince is older now then when he started this self imposed exile,
Golden hair grown out,
Lines showing signs of setting deep on a once youthful face,
Adorned in a cloak to better conceal himself from recognition.

The Queen,
Old now,
Sitting stooped upon the Cursed throne,
The only one left with claim over it,
Heedless of the consequences of her own pride and greed.

As the distance greatens,
The Prince sheds his cloak,
His slip into anonymity complete,
He stops to look behind him,
To gaze upon the watchers,
Their careful gaze taking in all.

Always silent before,
Never to judge,
Just to bear witness to the acts of all,
And now the watchers call out.

The Travelers heart aches,
Upon such a sorrowful sound,
A last gift given to the man in ancient tongue,
A key to success in the Travels future,
And then the traveler walks on.

The Old Queen receives word from the Traveler,
Sharing his knowledge imparted to him by the Watchers,
But only for him to not realize it is knowledge delivered too late,
The Curse would not be lifted in time

The Traveler pauses at the beginning of the Mountain path,
Seeing the beautiful range starting  just a mile off,
A welcomed change,
To give away the Watchers gift to others as well.

The days grow long,
But many sights are beholden to the Traveler,
So many things to see,
Beauty of the journey not lost on him as he still silently mourns his home

Ages pass,
Great deeds are accomplished,
Friends made,
Loves lost,
Wisdom gained,
Muscles lost,
Eyes dulled a bit,
As adventures slowed down,
And the travelers name is lost to time.

Roots are formed,
Set atop the tallest mountain,
Not far from a kingdom,
Set in the valley below,
Not too different from his home,
The one left behind too long ago.

The Hermit takes the Travelers place.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Trying to race to the western promises.

Passing into lands previously untravelled,
Towards the glow emenating from those golden opportunities,
Almost as if taking flight towards the stark blue horizon.

Not long to go,
Just a push and a plunge,
A great fall to the left on the map.

In search of a better future,
As great plains are traversed,
The beacon of answers to great questions lay ahead.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Trying to outrace the eastern storm.

Lessons in the trunk,
A case of tenacity in the passenger seat,
Goals hogging the back seat.

The wind tussling hair as it passes,
A gentle greeting as the countryside opens up,
The air clearer with every mile.

Everything seeming sharper,
Like a previously unknown haze being pulled from the eyes,
Colors vibrant and new.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Chasing the setting sun and running from the night.

A sweet saga sung,
A cigarette crackles as it ignites,
A tale tragic for my lungs,
But chemicals rush through the brain setting it alight.

Sweet accents to the tune as the tale unfolds,
As our hero's story unfolds,
A bittersweet departure,
Kept apart,
Held at bay by ideology and circumstance.

But a darkness approaches,
A dark fate comes closer,
To destroy them all,
And she orders her opposite to take her bow,
Standing shoulder to shoulder to bear the brunt of the storm.

The dark haze creep in the Valley,
Eyes peeled to the east for their only chance to survive to hold out,
Already morning the orchards that would soon be lost.

The rot begins to spread,
Grotesquely twisting the trees as they shrivel and waste away,
The scion of the ****** angered at the pyrrhic victory.

The long night bringing a great battle,
The feral calls are cried,
They meet in a great clash of steel and magic,
In a secret war away from private eyes,
How can just one battle last so long?

Armor is rent asunder as weapons are damaged and woundss attained,
The Scion steps forward with a sword set ablaze,
And the woman lies bloodied off to the side,
The warrior lays set with her bow pulled and arrow drawned back,
Her aiding him even after she was taken off the board.

The Scion draws closer still,
His face finally shown to him,
As the symbols of the before set aglow along the bow,
The arrow is loosed,
Sending it along it's trajectory as the sun finally climbs from the east, washing everything in light.