Standing on the corner of hopelessness and despair, there is a house with shattered glass windows and a cracked stone walk way. It is often dark with little light making it in. Inside you will find the floor littered with the tattered remains of aspirations and hopes. Once vibrant goal now left abandoned in a dark and desolate house. An empty shell of a building, where you can find anything and nothing at the same time. A place where lives go to die a little at  a time, inside the house of broken dreams.

The world is made out of different colors of people. All of us are born equal. We are born naked, hungry and cold. Beyond that we must struggle for what we get. Some likeneed not try as hard as others, yet life is still a struggle. If we were to stand side by side and look at each other, we would see only superficial differences. In truth, the color of humanity crosses borders and ideological lines. We must embrace the rainbow of different people in order to live  as the human race in peace and prosperity for all.

From one root humanity sprang up. We shot forth in all directions. We put out leaves and clusters of us formed communities. We diverged and became diverse, some of reached for the sun, but cast a long shadow over others. Somewhere along the way, the parts of the vine that rose up, forgot where are roots lie. Perhaps it is time that we all look back and trace our origions so that we can realize that we all came from the same place and that we are all part of the same human vine.

Bridle the horses and cut loose the hounds, sound the horn an let the mist settle on the fields. Set in motion the ancient game of quarry and hunter. Dash forth into the open field and through the forest. Hear the dogs howl as they find the scent of their prey. Run the race and let the horses work into a froth, with thundering hooves that shake the ground as to go to war. Sound the horn and pronounce the game is afoot. Feel the wet air as it wraps around you, in pursuit of your quarry. Now come close one to another in the fury of the chase. Through stream and across knoll, into the valley you ride, the hounds racing ahead in anticipation of blood. Onward they run only to be frustrated by a briar patch or hole into which the quarry has found save haven. Alas the fever pitch dies down, for the end is not truly for the death of a living thing, but the lust of the pursuit and the chance to hunt again another day such a wily foe as has evaded you this day.

The sun beats down on the asphalt and the heat rises like an oven. Scalding the air until it burns your lungs just to breathe. A red cone sits on the corner, holding back the blood of the streets. Then from no where, the tap is pulled open and the flood of water rises into the air. Running slowly so as not to fall flat on the sizzling street, you dash into the spray and feel the semi-cool water wash over you as you run back out into the blazing heat. As quickly as you become wet and get a minor bit of relief from the urban hell, the water evaporates and steam makes the air even more unbearable, so you dash back into the downpour and try to stay in the wild stream as others dash around trying to escape the umbrella of fire that covers the whole neighborhood. In a few stolen moments, a fountain of life spews forth and makes you feel a bit more alive as the street crackles and cracks from the water as it releases the heat demons that were trapped in the asphalt and cement of the city sidewalks and streets.

Slivers of Silver and White dangle from frigid walls, moonlight shines bright through the clear frozen windows and bounces around the facets of the frozen jewels that adorn the spires and stairways. The ceiling shines like a thousand stars as each frozen Diamond bounces faint Blue light back down to the floor. Adorned in a gown of winter white, the princess of the frozen kingdom whirls around and dances in her winter dream. Deep in the frozen heart of the coldest places, she is adored and cherished. With eyes closed she feels the chill of her castle that will stand until the sun comes to reclaim it's own. Until then she will dream of life in her frozen palace of wonder.

In the halls of a frosty mountain, under the chill of a winters wind. A queen sits on her silver throne. Icicles hang from the vaulted ceiling of her stone castle. A waterfall of frigid water runs down the side wall adjacent to her throne. She is adorned in jewels as cold and sparkling as her steel Grey eyes. Her gaze pierces the warmest heart with the stare that can freeze a summers day. No love resides in her, she has hidden it all away. So beware when you enter her kingdom and peer upon her snow white skin and look into her steely gaze, lest you become a prisoner, frozen by the ice queen.

What is it and why can't we see it. Who is this person everyone talks about. Where did it come from and why does the need even exist. So many questions and so few answers. Many rail against the concept, and yet billions cry out to something they have never seen. So is it just a fantasy, or  a mass delusion. Perhaps there is something deeper than what we can understand. Perhaps there is something deep inside of us that knows a cosmic truth that must admit that we do not control anything. Perhaps it is this that makes us focus on seeking out something greater than ourselves. Perhaps this is the idea of God.

The gardens in my castle are filled with all kind of exotic flowers. The water from my fountains is purer than a new mountain snow. I am adored by all who know me and I can do no wrong. My touch can turned the gloomiest frown into a joyful smile. I know what each person needs and can give their wish with no effort at all. All of my foes succumb to my graces and refuse to fight. Such is the wonder of the imagined life.

A land with in a land, shielded from the outside world. All things held in square blocks. Masonry and stone rise to the sky towering above the streets below.  It  harbors of cities ills or is a  bastion of innovation and progressive ideals. The inner city lives a life cycle. It is reinvented, it grows then deteriorates into decay only to be bulldozed then reborn. The land remains, the buildings are redesigned and the people revolve in and out. Race is not important nor are ideals, all that matters is that the enclave is there. It has a high point and  a low point. It thrives then dies . It is like the Phoenix, it goes to ashes then rises from it's own destruction. This is the inner city a land with in a land of urban sprawl.

Beneath the ground you walk on, in dark crevices and cracks. Things creep and move with little concept of time. Stones sit idly for eons of time waiting for the earth to shift and groan. A niche is carved out and a pool of water forms. Things begin to grow and flourish around the pool in the dark deep recesses of the earth. Life finds a way in the harshest of places. In deep caves where it seems impossible for it to exist. As we scurry around like bacteria in a plastic dish, life evolves, lives and dies all around us, while we are seldom aware of the secrets the caves, and natural subterranean world holds above and beyond what we can know and understand.

Ghostly shapes cut into soft orange flesh. Ghoulish faces leering out from the darkness. Images of tortured souls given life for a moment, as a pail glow of eerie light pierces the night from front porches. Specters return and haunt old places. People gather with painted faces. Telling stories to make your hair stand on end. Drinking spiced pumpkin juice and eating candy until nights end. Now comes the witching hour, when the old night must pass away. The candles have faded and the Jack o' lanterns are put away Until the coming of Halloween again visits our door. Then we shall carve out the Jack o' lantern once more.

Long have I traveled and far have I come. I have stopped to help many a wayward soul. In life's storms and through tragedy I have kept up the good fight I have given of myself all that could be ask and perhaps a little more. Now as I grow weary, I look for a place to rest and seek to find my way home. I have carried my banner and stayed the course, now I long for rest. To again know the warmth of a fire and the blessings of friends around me. Through one last night and over one more hill, I will finally come to the journeys end.

Listen to the drums beat and to the flutes play. Hear the chanting of a people from a land far away. Jump up and down and let the ground shake beneath your feet. Show that you feel the music and let your heart leap. Share your exuberance for life and give others a chance. Exchange cultural idea through the joy of dance.

Immersed in the smells of a market place. Taking in all of the sights and sounds. Walking with senses overwhelmed by colors, textures and flavors. Some people eat to live, but few live to eat. The quality of the food is often of greater importance than the quantity. Taking into account the essence of what you are making instead of the portion size presents value to life. In the market, the mind wanders putting combinations of food together. All things are robust and imagined. How will a small amount of fresh Spinach sprinkled on pasta change the flavor with a topping of each different type of cheese. What will Pepper do to this and how will Tomatoes affect that? These are questions that must be asked when learning to the joy of food, for pleasure is the essence of a healthy life. Thus ,learning to live to eat instead of eating to live is very important to a balanced existence.

The world had grown dark and the light of righteousness was being snuffed out. I was caught with others standing for the cause of Christ. The enemy had taken us and bound us in chains. We were take before the judgement seat to be condemned . Grand doors were opened and ornate fixtures were seen. On a high bench sat the one who would be my judge. One by one we were questioned as the holy spirit spoke through us. Then I was asked how I would plead? I spoke not of Jesus, but of a snow storm long ago. I spoke of giving mercy to a most and desperate soul. In chains I finished speaking by the holy spirit you see. Then a somber mood filled the judgment hall as the chief justice looked right at me. With a stoic look and a chilling refrain, she said I find no fault I now set you all free. Our chains were loosened and as I turned to go, the judge called to me, one moment if you please. I turned and saw an empty room, many others left in astonishment, some in utter disbelief. Then the judge came before me and fell upon me. With a trembling body and eyes filled with tears, she said I know your story of mercy so long ago. For it was I unto who you gave mercy, I was the one lost in the snow. I quietly comforted her and said it is ok. I said it wasn't me who showed you mercy that day. As today when you heard me speak you see. It was not I but the holy spirit that was in me. So I smiled at the judge and left her with a new peace. Finally she knew who had truly set her free!

Working in a field collecting bails of dried grass. Toiling for my daily bread. I watched as others lay around in the shade, onward I walked eating dust and dried grass. Under the July sun, I burned and wanted for more. I longed to be free from my labors and to be at ease as others were, but my task master would not relent upon me. Trying to teach me a lesson, that it took many years to learn, I now see the truth in hard work that was my fate. While others were not expected to labor, my father demanded accountability. Under the July sun, I was tempered by a fire, that made me able to enjoy the fruits of hard work in latter years.

What can bring me joy, what can make me smile. What will lighten my heart and lift my burdens for a while? It is what I choose. The things that I like. They are the key to my happiness. They are what is right for me.

The air is cold and the lights are dim. Even in the coolness of the early morning, my palms sweat. I pull the blade from it's sheath and begin the ritual. Scrape goes the blade over the sharpening stone. Scratch goes the blade over the honing stone. An action repeated equally on both edges of the knife. Honing the blade to a glistening edge. One blade after another, until they are all perfectly sharpened. I look at my victims laid out in a specific order. I can see the veins and their limbs as they wait for me. I move my sharpened cutlery to where my victims lay. With each precision cut I spill their blood and juices. One by one they are precisely cut. I begin to tear up as I am splattered by the juices from them. My hands are stained red with their life's blood. As quickly as the carnage begins, so it ends. The vegetable are set aside and made ready for my kitchen and the making of the days fare.

Unsteadily I hold the rough edged blade, unbalanced in my hand. I look at my wrist from past scars and wonder if I can stand it. The cutting has stopped working, and I wonder should I go deeper this time. Will I be able to find the courage with in myself or will I need a bottle to help me get there. I wonder why I should stay around another day, I wonder does anyone even care?

Sitting in a window on a dressing mannequin, viewed by a wide eyed girl, a lace dress shimmers soft and white. Oh how she wants to feel it caress her skin. She presses her face to the window and look at again and again. Each day she comes by, she longs for it to be hers. She hopes and waits patiently until she can make it her own. With ribbons and frills she imagines how she will look. At night she dreams of it's beauty, as she waits to sleep. Then one day she comes by and it is gone. Her heart falls into sadness, for her dream has been shattered. At home she sits solemnly peering out a window. Through lace curtains she views the world as it goes by. Then a light shines in her eyes, like the dawn of a new day. With great anticipation, she gets up and goes on her way. With a sewing kit and some scissors, she pulls the curtains down. She cuts and sews with great care, until she is done. With a fitted slip, she finishes her work until she thinks she has it right. Then standing in front of a mirror, she smiles with sheer delight. What she could not buy she has made for herself. The lace dress looks wonderful, as good at the one she saw in the store. Now her only problem is what to do about the curtains that are not hanging on her mother’s windows anymore?

In a desolate waste where little life can exist, skeletons of what was once great litter the landscape. Remnants of iron beast sit and rust under a pail sun. The cold wind chaps the fractured frames of buildings long since abandon. What few people that are left shuffle through the desert that once was prosperous. They shiver at the rattle of metal carcasses that shake and quake as their last few welds and bolts begin to corrode apart. In what was once mighty city, before it was gutted by political leeches, many look  on in despair as what is left of hope fades away.

Rivers flow over green stones as Unicorns dance around fairy enclaves. Rows of rainbows adorn the mist cast up by the silver water hitting the rocks. Trees with gold leaves sway in the warm breezes. Gnomes harvest mushrooms and scurry back to their holes before they are seen by prying eyes. Blue and Purple fish swim in the river jumping in and out of the water. Elves dash from tree limb to tree limb hunting for secret treasures hidden by Leprechauns, after they stole it away from some horrible troll. Magic reigns over the land where imaginations play. In the dark blue sky, 3 moons rise replacing the two suns. One is Jade Green, one is Ruby Red and one is Pail Blue. Each greater than the last. Night falls as White and Silver star light shines down. Tired eyes find rest after the day of imagination. They sleep dreaming of Unicorns and fairies as soft white clouds surround them. Until it is time to wake and play in the imagination again.

In a place between nowhere and somewhere, letters lie about scattered across a bland and colorless landscape. They drift in a few at a time, torn off from phrases that would have been and poems that should have been. No one really knows how the letters find there way here, they just kind of do. When a great idea is not penned down, then the words become fragmented and simply fall into the ethos sphere . They come to  the unnamed place for the letters cannot form words on their own.

The tears have been shed and the ground has been packed firm. The solemn words have been spoken and the bereaved have gone their way. Now in silence the departed waits for the eternal day. As the last person has faded into the distance. The last flower is presented and brings new life to the grave. The Rose of Sharon has come forth and with a touch of the divine, the departed soul ascends into the eternity leaving the buried past behind.

The sun shines down on the earth as it turned in the emptiness of space. People stirred as the days light broke the eastern horizon across the world. God looked down from his throne and listened to the world. He heard cursing and talking but little in the way of prayer. Suddenly he raised his hand and a great angel went forward with his trumpet in his hand. As people were going about concerned with worldly care, suddenly the angel blew his horn an creation was shaken. The sun suddenly went out and darkness fell on the earth. The heavens were torn asunder and a new light shines down. In fear people fell as all things came undone. In the heavens Christ sat on a great white throne surrounded by his angels and the saints of old. Morning had given way to eternity as God said it is done. No more shall morning break, eternal day has come.

My eyes are red and sore, and the morning light has come. The nights have been long, but at last I am done. The wells of sorrow that were inside of me have dried up and the ground can hold no more. I must now find the broken pieces of my heart and put them in a box. I still feel a small bit of regret, but the longing will pass with time. I must now close a door behind me and stare into the on coming day. I do not want to face the new reality of the life that I must now live, but I cannot grow anything on salted ground. So now that I can no longer grieve, I will simply feel nothing for a while. It will be better than dwelling in sorrow and the mire of misery. I hope your journey takes you to where ever happiness is, as for myself I will simply exist day by day. Perhaps I will find a new passion to fill the void that you left in me, but for now the last tear has fallen and I can cry for you no more.

There has been a long dry season. A drought has been in place. My spirit is thirsty and my soul is an arid waste. I have walked in the parched landscape and planted many seed. I have watched for clouds of spiritual refreshing to come. Now the season of trial and sewing has ended and the growth has begun. Soon the harvest will be at fullness, lord please let it now come. Let fall the anointing, let that which has been sewn prosper and give gain. Oh lord refresh our soul through the abundance of the harvest. Lord send us the latter rain.

Grown ups fight over what children do not understand. Soccer ***** cannot be played with because land mines are strewn across their fields. Those who are older think they know what is best. They yell and scream at each other then send the young to die for nothing. When the dust settles and the smoke clears and the land is torn apart, the motherless and fatherless are left in abundance. They roam the streets and play in garbage to pass the time of day. They huddle together to keep warm and safe. The older ones try to help the younger ones with little in the way of knowing how. They can only emulate what they have seen and that seem wrong somehow. So to break the cycle of depravity, we must all yell stop. The masses must simply sit down and say enough. When the grownups become idle and bring governments to their knees, only then will we begin to build more soccer fields and farms. Then perhaps there will be families instead of broken children left over from fighting that didn't solve anything.

In a world that is at a tipping point, what can one person do? Wars rage and destruction seems to live everywhere. Kindness seems to have been replaced with selfish lust and greed. Yet one seed can bring forth a harvest many fold. Though a mountain may seem daunting, one person can yet climb it. Perhaps the hope for tomorrow lies not in great things that need to be done. Perhaps with each person who still cares, the seed of hope is alive. If each person plants that seed in the garden of humanity, then today's frustrations will be replaced with tomorrows joys and the legacy of humanity will become one of peace and caring that will have grown through the birthing pains of hate and destruction, showing us a shining path to tomorrow.

As I lay in the chair my arm  begins to go numb. My vision is fading as each drip hits the floor. Spatter, spatter goes each drop as it plops and pools onto the floor. Each sound is amplified as life runs from my veins. The warmth slips away as I begin to lose conciseness. With each passing second I slip further away, as my last thoughts race as to how much longer it will take, all goes black.

Born out of a larva, set for a purpose. Only knowing what it must do. No freedom of thought for itself. Living a short span while avoiding being swatted or squashed under someone's shoe. A bug is often resented and called ugly. Much disdain is held for the lowly insect, but for the set purpose the bug is important. For without the insect, many things would not be possible. Fishing would be boring without the joy of watching a child trying to hook a cricket. Flowers would not bloom unless a bug pollinated them. Then you could not give your wife Roses when you forgot your anniversary. So though the life of bug may seem short lived and mundane. It is a very important life indeed.

A thing that should be filled with wonder, smiles and a safe place to dream. Toothless laughter at the most silly things. Crayon marks on the wall, mommy how big am I today? They grow up in such a hurry, and it ought not be that way. The life of a child should be simplicity and filled with hopes and dreams. It should last longer than 50 Summers it seems. Oh but alass imagination Fades away and problems come and take childhood away. So for the precious moments that last for a little while, let children be children and cherish the life of a child.

Let the light be taken away from the night and let your radiance outshine the sun. The celestial bodies are of no compare to you. The light of your love blinds me and you walk with footsteps as light a summer breeze. I long to hold you and to feel the warmth that your love projects. Flowers bloom in your presence and lives are changed because you have passed by. To know you is to love you and to be placed under your spell. You have stolen the moon from the heavens and replaced it with your smile.

My ship has been beaten and battered, the hull has had enough. I am tired and weary, the seas have finally found their calm. Long has the voyage been but now I need to rest. Through many storms I have sailed longing for safe harbor. Now on the horizon I see the lights of a new city and my final port of call. So with what little strength I can muster and with the last drop of faith that is in me. I unfurl my sails as I feel a soft gentle breeze blowing at my back. Onward I go as the hull cuts through the calm water, I see the lights getting ever brighter as a new dawn seems to be breaking from an unknown place. With quiet resolve I set my rudder amid ship and head forward, as I get ever closer to the bright new shores, I can see images of people I know, my eyes now grow heavy as if I am entering a dream. The troubled waters of life fade away as I finally make land fall to the lights that have been calling me home for so long.

Oh majestic beauty who's face launched a thousand ships. How magnificent your tragedy is. To flee from wrongful persecution the roaring of the crowd of your accusers. Into the arms of another and the fate of empires lies in the balance. To know that you are sought as a prize worthy of the avarice of kings. How you end as deception brings down a kingdom. Vengeful are thy pursuers in their lust. How their cries for blood haunt you and the hateful venom of their envy brings you low. Take heart, for history will judge you and perhaps remember you kindly. For you were not the architect of your undoing, but the fates did touch you from birth and put your beauty on a path from which you could not veer left or right, until the final judgment came upon those who coveted you and those who spurned you in the blood letting of violence that shattered many lives and taught lessons that few would be willing to learn.

Put a flower on your pillow and write a small love note. Do the dishes without you asking, and give you the t.v. remote. Set aside an hour just to listen to what you have to say. Invite your mother to dinner and cook while the two of you chat the night away. Though they may not seem like much, they are what makes love worth while. Taking time to do the little things is what makes a relationship worth while.

Let my life be a book that others can read. Let it reflect the goodness and not the ill of my being. Let my path be one of teaching and of listening. Let me seek knowledge as precious gems. Let my deeds show a better way of living, and let my resolve to stand firm in my convictions with aggression as my last recourse, be evident in my philosophies. Let kindness be my way of dealing with ill treatment and let me show love when others show prejudice. In the end let my life be the living word that I speak to others who wish to know who I am and what I believe.

Days without a shave, hair styled by gel. Sandals and old jeans, a style that seems too relaxed. A car that is over due for a wash and a devil may care attitude. Clothes lay piled in the corner of his home, they are sorted by layers that is a fact. Take out and beer are his food groups, it was cool when he was twenty. Now that he is pushing forty, its just kind of sad. Too wild to be tamed, always going to catch you later. Always up for a good time, but can never return the favor. An endangered species if there ever was one, the last of his generation. He is not really being hunted by anyone, he will just go by way of extinction.

Though I am sorely weary, I will not slow down on my journey. Many miles lie behind me and I have just a few more to go. The battle has been difficult, but the end is finally near. Many good friends have fallen by the wayside but cowardice will not stain their memories. As I see the coming horizon, I feel the weight of my burdens in my soul. I have carried many crosses and have lifted up many when they have fallen down. Now at the end of my weariness, I hear the warmth of laughter, at a grand table I see a empty chair. Though my body is growing feeble, my spirit is given renewed strength. Through all of my toil and suffering, I have finally completed my journey on the long road home.

Snow whites out the landscape . the cold cuts to the core of the soul. So has been the state of my heart this long loveless winter. Return to me now passion, let spring time renew in my soul. Flee now oh desolate winter and let love my heart renew.

Oh rough beast that looks back at me from my reflection at the bottom of the bottle before me. How I loathe to look at you and what you have become. I see a fraction of what you once were as I now feel you judging me. Howl at me with a scornful laugh if you like, but you are just the truth of who I am. So I will sit here for a moment with this empty glass staring at my reflection in a half empty bottle and decide if I will yield to temptation in order to avoid my own reality, or perhaps now that I have seen the unvarnished truth of what I have become or will become, I will pick myself up and stumble back to reality as I deal with my own guilt and shame.

Falleing between the cracks, forgotten and left behind. Taken from loving homes and placed in cruel and merciless surroundings. Victims of war and hatred, left homeless because of battles they don't understand. Generations of children are forced to just find a way to survive. Why is there such cruelty? Why is this allowed? Who can answer this question? They are the disadvantaged, the abused, the neglected and the unloved. Left defenseless and hopeless, they become easy prey for opportunist. If each of us would stop and care and try to do a small part. Then perhaps children would not be lost or keep falling through the cracks.

An old man still on the street corner with a tin Cup in his hand. He would sing and dance a little bit for people that would walk by and if you like what he did he would ask can you spare a few dimes. His clothes showed sign of age and his hair was white and gray but he did not seem to have want or need, he just came out everyday. Some people wondered if he was crazy, other thought he was just a ***, but if you saw what he would do each night, then you would understand why he would do his little song and dance and Shake That Old tin can. When the sun were begin to sit low, the old man would take a walk down the street. They'd walk inside a little chapel and before an altar he would kneel. He would parties cup into the collection plate, and say Lord I did the best I could I hope that this little bit helps and there with it you can do some good. He would then get up and move on and go about his way, until the Sun would rise up and he started again the next day. One day you're the old man came up missing, where did he go you suppose? Nobody seemed to really miss him they just walk by and didn't notice at all. He finished up his work one day and did as he had done many nights before, but this time when he went to the alter he was met there by the Lord! He was pulled up from bending knees and Jesus Took the cup from his hand. The Lord then placed the crown upon his head, and the heavens began to expand. The old man turned around and he look back upon his life. He heard every prayer he prayed install every time you brought in his little can. What he saw now that he didn't see then, was that God had a master plan. Every few dollars the one in that plate, went into Masters hands! They're Jesus spoke over it and supplied it with blessings they could not be given by man. The old man self children being fed and people being taught the word. Then the Lord said to him the half that you have done is not even been known, but for your faithful service I now welcome you home. So when you think the smallest thing that you do is not enough, just remember that great things come on the smallest deed when it's touched by God's love.

Dressed in the finest clothes, with the best looks, money and prestige in abundance. Only when the serpent has beguiled you into submission, do you see it's fangs too late. Taking up a banner in the name of righteousness, only to commit atrocities that would make God turn his head. Singing for joy of holiness, when the actions are anything but that. Hiding in a crowd, appearing plain and normal, while underneath the façade, a raving wolf waits to pounce. Whether with a serpents beguiling tongue or the appearance of self righteousness, evil has many faces of which one must be aware.

I am an unfinished vessel, I am still in the fire of the furnace waiting to meet the forge. I am a piece of wood that sits in the carpenters shop, waiting to be shaped into something useful. I am all these things that must wait with patients for the masters hand to find me and make me what I will become .

Rows upon rows of white stones glisten in the sun. A silent guard keeps the watch day and night. The bodies like undisturbed, waiting for the final trumpet to call. Hero's all they fell, when they did their duty. Now people walk among the graves and wonder at the markers. They see the names of freedoms defenders. While around the sacred piece of land images of things that have been done sit idly. In bronze and stone the testify to the cost of freedom that is often too high, but a price which many are willing to pay. They did it not for love of self, but for country and liberty. They are the memorial and testament to what it takes to live free.

On a steed as black as night, a lone soul rides out from the vaulted walls of the citadel to which he is assigned. Onward into the mist of the coming morning he rides. The heart of the horse and rider race in time with one another, onward the rider goes. Jumping over ditches instead of following well known roads, the message of such an urgent nature must get through. Beyond fields filled with herds of sheep and swine that have been released from their pens, on goes the rider into the coming dawn. Driving the steed until it's heart might break, through blurry eyes the messenger goes on. Finally the camp fires are seen on the line, as the rider approaches the sentry, the sign is given and passage is allowed quickly. As the rider jumps from the exhausted steed covered in a white froth from galloping across rough land, with legs numbed by the ride, the messenger collapses before the captain, with message in hand. Tearing the envelope asunder the young captain sees the news, to him a son has been born. With rejoicing he is elated as the messenger fades away.

The call echoes through the canyon from the sheer wall that holds the Eagles haven. Into the wind the majestic bird spreads it's wings soaring into the sun. Diving into the cool running stream it's eyes catch a vision of the fish below as it's Talons grasp life from the water and it's wings lift it into the wind back to it's mountain fortress. From its lofty perch it surveys it's domain and calls out to let all who would challenge it's dominion that it is the lord of it's land. Graceful and inspiring the Eagle stands alone.

I am the monster you created! I am the life that you hated! I am what you would like to destroy, now I am here to distress and annoy you! I am the ***** secret you wanted to bury. I am the thing that children find scary! I am the burden you have to carry. So why don't you admit that I am real and we can get on with learning how to deal with our co-existence as I torment your mind. I am your monster, I am your Frankenstein!