Oh soulless moon how cruel is your light, casting shadows in the night. In the cruelest twist of fate I must stand under your watchful gaze, as I am haunted by my loves forgotten shade. It would be better that there were no lesser light, so cold and unforgiving are you. The utter darkness would be better, then I would be wrapped in forgetfulness. How cruel fate is, she wreaks vengeance upon me. The sun burns me and you oh lesser orb taunt me. In the sun at least I can see clearly, but in your white light, shadows chase me, each one a demon lurking for my soul. Oh how I would that death had taken me instead, it would be better for me to have died of grief than my beloved. Now she is at peace and I must live each night mocked by you oh silver watcher, reminding of my lost love.

They say with age comes wisdom, but in fact with Wisdom, comes confusion. What I thought I knew I do not know and what was real is now surreal. Time didn't move fast enough when I was young, but now that I am old, it is a precious commodity. Though I have read many books, others opinions now seem less important than my own. If I could impart lessons, I would want to teach only myself. I am not sure what I am supposed to have learned through a lifetime of study, but I am sure it is not what I wanted to understand. The world was a lot simpler when the sky was blue, water was wet and the sun was warm. Now that I have gained knowledge, the more I know the less I understand of what it all means.

I can't believe I did it, oh please not again. I had one too many and when that happens, this is how it ends. I wake up with a fuzzy memory and I hope I didn't I know I did. I look over and see someone sleeping soundly in beside me in bed. I try to rise quietly and figure out where I am. Did I come back to my place or did they bring me home. I finally find the bathroom and realize that it's all wrong. So I must find my clothes and try to get out quick. I don't even know what they look like, that really makes me sick. I step out of the bedroom and quietly across the floor, I finally find the front entrance and open up the door. I look around to see what street I am on, this is really bad, again things have gone all wrong. All I see are open fields and a few cows here an there. I finally come to the realization that I am not walking away from here.

Drops fall down and wash the trees and the earth. The sky is a pail hue of silver. I step out into the down pour and let it wash over me. I let the cold rush through my soul. I look at the earth as it soaks up the water and holds it until it burst forth and runs down into streams and rivers. I see how the earth renews itself and I feel the spirit of life as it flows. As I dance between the drops I know that I am alive and that I am only a spark of light in the greater landscape of the earth and all life that lives around me.

From the dawn of creation until the end of days, let the name of the lord be praised. Let the heavens sing of the only one, the perfect lamb, Gods only son. Let all of those who would come and see, what has been wrought, the victory. From the end of his life until he rose again, let his name be exalted again and again. Come now and release us, even so lord Jesus come.

Silver and Gold will lose their luster. Jewels will not sparkle forever. Treasures can be stolen or tarnished by the passage of time. Life long memories on the other hand cannot be taken by a thief, nor can time erase the impact of love given to create them. The smallest acts of kindness and caring with family, is often the most precious thing. It is a treasure that cannot be given a value. It is part of who you are and what you pass on in life.

You were a point of focus to inspire the soul, an anchor when I was adrift in the world. A reason to continue when there seems no point to writing. Oh how you encouraged me to reach inside and find the words. You gave me hope and showed me paths that I would not have traveled on my own. I drew courage from you as I saw the truth in your work. Despite your imperfections, you are a beacon to my frustration when I have lost my way. To lose you is to see a part of myself fade into nothingness, how I long to hear you speak or to see you write again.

Last night I had a dream, I was sailing on a boat. The boat was ancient and creaked as it went along. I could not see all of the faces, but the captain stood clear. He held the helm with confidence even as the wind blew up the waves. I walked to where stood and watch him at his task. Then I noticed he had scarred hands, and quietly I asked. Where did you hurt yourself and the turned so I could see, he said oh the scars on my hands, I got them from a tree. He said that long ago, he had suffered loss. He said that the scars were a reminder of how much something cost. He said the tree where he was injured, did not hurt him long, but the injury was severe and cost him everything. I wept at his story and he asked why do you cry, for you see I had to suffer so that you would not have to die. He said I left my fathers home for a journey that you could not take, and on that tree, I had to take your place. He touch me on the shoulder, and it broke my heart. Then as suddenly as I had seen him, we were torn apart. The dream ended and I awoke, with tears filling my eyes. I knew with whom I had spoken and why he had to die. So late at night in silence, my world was torn apart, but with great remorse, I gave that man my heart. Now I long to speak with him again. I look forward to the day that we can sail on that ship again. The next time that we meet, I will already understand, why my Jesus wears the nail scars in his hands.

Shedding all of your clothes and removing your inhibitions, stand in front of the mirror and admit the truth to yourself. You are what you were made to be, you are beautiful indeed. Could you lose some weight, yet but only for your health not for vanities sake. So accept your existence and breathe in the free air. Be at one with what you are and just go from there.

Ducks sit on still lakes and Geese graze quietly in meadows. soon they will take flight for warmer climates. The north wind begins to bring down a chill and the morning begins to become misty as the leaves find a hint of color. The sun sets ever lower and cast the shadow of evening earlier each day. People begin to pull out old blankets and air them out in the mid-day sun, as cool breezes blow through them. Firewood is gathered and piled up as the nights become colder and the skies become clearer, so that the stars shine a little brighter. No mistake can be made, the world is in transition and the time has come for things to settle down for rest. Fall is upon us and it's presence can be felt everywhere.

Seasons pass and things are born and die. The cycle of living and rebirth comes and goes. All things must pass from one state of existence to another. We all live a finite time, then we are no longer here. The foot print left behind is often fleeting. Even if great things are done, then time will erase the memory of them and make them a footnote in history. In all things life is constant and we are just a small part of the grander scheme of existence.

Stick me, ***** me, make me bleed. **** my pain, take away my loneliness and give me good feelings again. Find a vein and pierce it, let the hot mixture flow and wash away from me my sorrow. You sit there while I get high and try to escape the melon collie of my dull and dreary life. Though you leave your mark on me and some say you will be the death of me, you are the only thing that keeps me going. So let your sharp barbed tip keep making love to me and bringing me even further from the insanity that is call normality. I do not care that you may be my end, right now you are my only true friend, so stick around for a while and let's have a good time.

The plumbing is busted and the secrets have been spewed out for all to see. The festering leaks have overloaded the system and now the light of day shines on the truth of what was hidden. No secrets can be kept anymore, not from prying eyes of thieves and those who wish to control everything. To play God, even though the job is taken is the illusion of those who want to be in the know. The trouble that lies within the system, is that we are yet human. Given that fact alone and the  enormity of egos at outing the things that we said we would protect, makes the system failed before it even gets started. So settle down and ride the wave of uncertainty as one thing after another is shown the light of day. Perhaps it is the arrogance that anyone can hold all things in their hands and not let go of even one bit of what they have that has made God jealous and causes him to simply let the dice roll and the chips fall where the may, as the news is out and declared from the house tops that which was hidden in secret places.

The water is crystal clear and the air is like the first day. The sun shines brightly and war and disease has gone away. Hunger is a distant memory and we all age with grace. We live to see our children's, children's children come to the fullness of age. Sharing is common place and no one lacks anything. We have gone beyond the confines of our world and discovered new things. Tomorrow seem so very far away, but in truth a new tomorrow can start right now today.

Wiping my eyes I awake from a long slumber. To thundering voices I arise. For eight long years I have slept in a nightmare, now the sun has risen again. My country was under siege but not for much longer. The tables have been turned and I am now awakened. At last the long winter of discontent has passed and a new tree is growing. Liberty has been restored and hope is springing anew. Liberalism has been routed and conservatism has again taken root. Soon I will be fully awake and basking in the new day. Finally I will be free of the chains of oppression and be able to live without fear. For the nightmare is over and my country has been returned to me.

Rainbows in the night sky, pathways to some mystic plain of existence. Northern lights dance and dip through the vast open darkness. Like a divine ribbon being played by a child, it tosses itself too and froe. A spectacle to be observed in the waste of cold and unforgiving lands. It reminds the heart of what wonder can be. Opening the imagination to tales of the divinity of our origins. Mattering not what you may believe those to be. It sings with a voice beyond the ability of human ears to hear. Serenading the universe as it billows round the northern sphere. What a wonder the northern lights are to see.

Deep blue seas where there appears to be no bottom. Deep dark places where life exist against all odds. Flowing white wave crest where Dolphins and Whales dance from beneath the depths. Moments of quiet and calm, followed by a tempest rage. The sea is both life giving and unforgiving. We do not fully understand what the Ocean is, yet we refuse to give it the respect that it is due. We take from it, but what do we really give. We use it but do not show kindness in return. How long can we live like this, what will we be our end. The Ocean is a divine gift, perhaps we would do better to treat it as such.

Filled with salt and not fit to drink, akin to the sand of the great vast deserts. Yet life still abounds in abundance, despite the harsh reality of the elements. Though the surface appears to be devoid of much but churning water, as the sands of an arid waste that is churned by the wind. Life finds a way to exist in both places. Under the surface of the water, vast forest of colorful plants grow with schools of fish and vast intricate tapestries of life. As in the desert that holds a delicate eco system, so the ocean lives even though it appears that nothing is there at all.

Sitting on bails of hay, listening to the rain on the tin roof. I close my eyes and hear echos of the past. I take in the smell of damp wood and the tapping of the rain on the metal. I hear chickens clucking and scratching in the dirt. I drift back into years past, as I hear the creak of the barn doors and the sound of horses in the stalls. I can feel the presence of an old time grand father and hear child hood laughter as he tells stories and piles up hay. I can once again feel the cool dirt beneath my feet and smell the corn drying in the rafters. Here I sit and rest is still quiet, thinking of times gone past. In an old barn with a rusty tin room and a few missing boards. A place where my childhood was simple, and for a brief moment, time stood still and happiness could be found.

On the porch of a weather worn house, sits a creak old rocking chair. It moves slightly when a good breeze blows and you can hear it speaking ever so slowly. It tells a tell of aged grand parents rocking a new born babe. It tells of many a night spent staring at the stars, while holding someone you love close. The chair is a silent witness to many a times that have gone by. For the good or the bad, it is a place still that brings me home and reminds me of what home is to me.

Opening wisdom to the light. Laying down words into pages of tomes yet to be read. Brothers and sisters of the scribes trade, poets and story tellers alike. All bound by a union of pen and ink. Essence flows from their pens. Recording ideas for posterity or scribing out words for entertainment of others. All who hold a quill for the purpose of reciting or creating written words or prose are in the same order. A collaboration of written ideas and keepers of knowledge. Each writing on pages of enlightenment for others to read and enjoy.

Midnight passes and the earth turns on it's axis. My tears drench my pillow until I have no more of them to cry. I lie awake and look at the shadows pass across my room as the dim moon light begins to fade. Sorrow fills my heart as I lie on an empty bed, that I once shared with you. I love you without reason and long for you with conviction. My heart is broken into a thousand pieces. I have no peace since you departed and I hate the long empty nights alone. I will pull myself together and find what sleep I can, even if it comes from a bottle and a glass. When day first breaks and I must arise and start anew, I will go on empty without your love. So as sleep takes me from sheer exhaustion, I will dream and hope that on the other side of morning I will find strength to make it another day.

In Sharon a flower bloomed. A rose of great beauty that was gone too soon. It's fragrance filled the air, until of it's delicate petals it was stripped bare. Left naked and alone, it bore the shame of us all. Lain low among the thorns, through tragedy a flower was reborn. More beautiful than it had been before, a magnificent flower for all to adore. For where the rose had been brought down by all the world's sin, salvation was bornnwhennthe rose bloomed again.

Life is not a set of specific incidents or moments that can be put into a row. Some people take to one thing early and others must wait for a while. Some people start a journey that is shortened and they must move on. While others walk a singular path that will last a lifetime. The only things of which we can be sure is that living if finite and that all things will change. To what end the change will come, no one can say. All that we can do is go through the time and place that we are given, then move on to the next thing. For living is an adventure in itself and each part is an ever evolving thing.

To know myself is really hard. To determine what my point of view is difficult with others getting in my way. There are no bad hair days, just bad hair. Who said wash rinse and repeat anyway? Why must I look like everybody else, why can't I just look like myself. Why do I see a gym commercial right after the Burger king add for a whopper. I look with in and all I find is a mirror. I look without and all I see are fun house mirrors. So what if I do not want to go to college, can't I make a living fixing cars? It is all very complicated and I am not sure I will ever figure myself out. I just know that I cannot stop or I will not get started again. Will someone please help me unravel the mystery that is me?

I could not believe my eyes, when I saw the horror of it all. How could one man endure so much pain. I felt his anguish and my heart was ****** through. I agonize to just think of it. Such a young life taken, for no apparent reason at all. Then to be ****** through with such cruelty. I saw the tears of his mother and saw the water flow from the wound. I was broken and fell to my knees. At his last moment, he looked at me with piercing eyes and as his side had been pierced, so was my own soul. I surrendered to the wounding of my spirit and repented then and there. Now I strive to heal the wound and mend the scar, that I found at Calvary.

Bouquets of colors abound as the little pills that I swallowed down take hold of my keyboard. The words flow like an ebbing tide, they drift far and wide. My imagination flows like a river as I see the pretty colors of the ever expanding rainbow. My emotions are cleared away as I write about a rainy day or speak of a Unicorn that I just met. Who knew it could be this exciting when I let the pills do the writing instead of the dreary person who used to be me.

Sharpen the knives and load the guns, empty another keg of ***. Beat the drums and pull the cannon taught. Trim the sail and hoist the jib. Fly the black flag from the rigging. Turn into the wake, and head for our prize. Laden with gold and pieces of eight. Taste the salt spray we can hardly wait. Laying siege to a treasure ship. Come on now don't let her slip away. Mark your lines and make your aim true. There is still a good deal to do, before we can line our pockets with loot. Swing the wheel hard around, hear the cannon pound on the hull of the unsuspecting ship. Thunder echos across her decks, throw the grappling hooks and what the heck. With a cutlass and pistol I take to the fight, and if my luck is just right, I will have my fill of pirates ***** tonight. Gold doubloons and pieces of eight, my won't the ladies think I am great, when I sack this ship and return from the raging main.  So on me hearties and cut them down, Davy Jones watches them going down. Singing the pirates song as we go.

I look down at the blank paper and wish the pen to write. In frustration I lay my head in my hands. Slowly I fade into sleep only to be awakened by the sound of music. I turn around to see a man playing a lyre as another paces back and forth. Puzzled for a moment ,I look around the room. From one corner I see people who are vaguely familiar. My eyes return to the person Playing the music and suddenly I know it is David, while pacing next to him I see Aerostotil. Over at a simple wooden, table I recognize Shakespear chatting with a brash fellow I know to be Mark Twain. In confusion I stumble into Lord Byron, who is reading work just written by Dickenson, she sits in a chair idly brooding waiting for him to declare what he thinks. In a Mad Dash of confusion I quickly turn around, and I fall as the house of Usher's and come crashing to the ground. A well-dressed gentleman offers me a hand and picks me up, he has a dark and piercing stare. I ask where I am, and Mister Poe quietly declares, you're in the poet's room. You have found your way here, I asked him how and he says I'm truly not sure. He says this is a place where people come to share ideas and to watch one another's work. I say that I was frustrated and could not will my pen to write. He laughs rather smugly with an impish Delight. He said that is not the purpose of writing, he says you cannot will it to flow. He says look around you and tell me what you see. I said I see great writers, but he said they can be just as frustrated as you. He said Each one can tell a story, and he said that something that you must learn to do. So the room again to fade into a fuzzy Hayes. I woke up from my slumber and look down at the blank and dismal page. It suddenly dawned on me, but I must look around. For if I want to tell a story, then it must be found. So I got it for my table and took a walk outside. There I took a really good look at the World Grand and wide. I didn't set off on a journey with the lessons that I've learned. A story can't be forced, it must be earned. So when I return to my desk, with paper and Pen in Hand. I shall no longer be so frustrated for now I understand.

Oh pain , and sorrow cuts me to the quick. What comes from a hateful tome written to spite my soul. How grievous are the words filled with poison that wound me and make toxic my soul. Oh fowl stench of criticism from my peers is gut wrenching, we're a knife plunged into my heart. Oh the Fowl deed is done, the poison words have cut me and curtled my blood , thus bringing me to a literary death.

Dripping with dark venom that comes over it's fang. It rips lives to shreds and reveals secrets! Like a dagger in the back, the pen opens up wounds and makes one betray another! The words flow out and can't be put back in! So when you suffer from a broken heart, or perhaps are a jilted lover or a no longer needed friend. Watch for the viper that will slide into your hand, then bite down hard as it release it's venom. So is serpent that is the poison pen.

Like a serpent, so is the tongue when it is not tied down tight. It stings like a Scorpion and bites like the venom of a Viper. It cuts like a knife made of Obsidian and can splint the bone from the marrow. It feeds the fire of rumors and cannot be easily quenched. It can destroy lives and bring wars to fruition with only fables. So beware the tongue and all of it's devices, because it can be the purveyor of destruction and will even turn on the one who lets it loose.

In a dark corner of Washington filled with ghostly Grey light, the remnants of could have and should have been lie in dusty heaps. The hollow and empty skeletons of forgotten political careers. Where all would be great leaders careers go to die. A place filled with forgotten slogans and scandal ridden files filled with half truths. Ghost haunt this place whaling and bemoaning their ends. Where never a thought is given to those who ran and lost. The political bone yard is a reminder to all would be giants, of just how far one can fall into obscurity and to what end a political career can come.

The bulls rumble through the capitol stamping on everyone who dares oppose them. The fat cats toss around money to gain favor and access. The air is tepid and the mood is questionable at best. The political weather can change with a new pundit poll. Despite rain or snow, inside the capitol there is a temperate climate that has come in because of a change in the way the political winds blow.

Vote for me, no Vote for me as the talking heads scream across my T.V. Irritated and inundated  with the latest accusation or scandal. My opponent did this and I didn't do that, it is more than one sane person can handle. While the world burns with so called wars, our radios and T.V.'s become political mind fields. Now longer and longer the winter comes making cold the public debate. As news pundits swoon over the next it person and the riders of so many an elegant leg jockey for a position. I must get up and go to work to pay the heavy taxes they promise they won't increase. Were election time like any other season, where a license must be obtained, before you enter my home over the latest episode of my favorite show or block my best sports team. As my head swoons and my insides turn into mush, I just pray for an end to this protracted political season that I have grown to despise so much.

I look into the void that fills the halls of power and I get all confused. I look for distinguished statesmen in fine attire, but all I see are the animals running up and down a spire. There are old lions who have seen their better days with dingy coats and teeth that have bitten off more than they can chew. I see packs of wolves banding together giving anyone who challenges them an icy Arctic stare. Then there are Zebras that are constantly trying to change their stripes, as they prance to and fro trying to avoid any one position. I look on and see packs of Jackals with microphones and cameras. Hissing and growling as they snap at each other to get a word in edge wise. Then there are the Ostriches, who stick their heads in the sand or at least under their desk until what ever problem they are facing has passed. Such is the life in the halls of power also know as a Political zoo.

A written word displayed on a page with Integrity or profanity. A way to speak to one's fellow person, displaying thoughts and ideas for all to see. What poison can the quill deliver or what medicine to restore the soul with truth? The written word has its context, it brings Joy it elicits hatred it makes us have compassion. Words can start wars or they can make peace. Things written down can Inspire and create or tear down and Destroy overnight. Heroes are made and villains are created all by simple words. How they are penned by the quill will determine their intent. In forms of eloquent oration or simple alliteration, words can move people in One Direction or another. So we must never underestimate, nor should we negate the responsibility in the power that the quill has with the written word.

Words are tools in the box of the wordsmith. They can inspire person to great acts of kindness or cruelty. The can cut deeper than the sharpest blade or can bring the greatest joy. They can move people to heroics or cause people to cringe in fear. They can inspire a revolution or bring people together in ways not yet imagined. Words can come alive or lay flat and be dead. They can set a person free or imprison them body mind and soul. In all things words have power, but not all ever realize how to harness that power. While some are born with a greater gift for mastering the words than others, all can learn to use words effectively. They can be tools or weapons, bridges or divisive walls that separate us. It is up to us to see the power of word and to use that power wisely or not.

Speaking to those who are receptive of your ideas can open up hearts and minds. Even if total agreement is not reached, understand can begin. When word are spoken they can heal or wound in ways we cannot even imagine. We must parse our speech carefully, for we do not know who is listening or who might take offense or take what we say to heart.

The world is a happy place filled with smiling faces, I see all as friendly to me. I am happy with myself and I like who I am, nothing bad can ever phase me. I have a life as prescribed by the things I see on T.V. . Just a few pills from that bottle and a swallow of this and I am upbeat and full of happiness. In a world that sees things as dark and bleak, it is nice to always be positive and if I'm not, then there is a pill for that too.

As an imperfect creature of like passion to my fellow humans, I proclaim that I am flawed. I proclaim that I like others have imperfect ideals and imperfect thoughts. I declare that my philosophies can evolve and change. I state that my core value of being helpful where I can remains in tact. I state that I am a work in progress, if I will cease to procrastinate. I say that in this life that I can only hope to do better today than yesterday. I proclaim that I will try to bring hope and not misery. I proclaim that we all fall short of our creator, whom ever we believe that to be. I proclaim that in the end, I shall endeavor to tip the scales for the good and not the ill and that is the best I can promise to do.

I will do this; you can depend on me for that. We use promises as easily as we drink water. Gone are the days when the mere word was a bond, now it is a casual thing. A firm handshake has been replaced with contracts and lawyers. The gentleman's agreement has gone the way of many ancient tomes and animals. It can now only be seen in nostalgic movies and museums.  What would it take to return to such a way of living, to once again keep the promises we make?

Vines running everywhere, with corn stalks bundled in heaps. Orang orbs glowing in the sun as they begin to ripen. Bouncing among the hills of Pumpkins waiting to be pulled off the vine. Imaginations run wild as to what might be made of them. A Jack O' Lantern or home made pies. Pumpkin spice punch or cookies perhaps. The world is alive with the colors of wondering as harvest time comes to the Pumpkin patch.

Toss the pieces into the air and let the box fall away. Toil over the meaning of it all. Pull a piece from over there and take a piece from over there. Try to fit them together so that they make sense. One piece looks ok but doesn't fit quite right. Another does not fit the picture but fits perfectly. Struggle and obsesses until the pieces fall into place or until you lose your mind! This is the puzzle that we call life.

Water comes from the clouds and drenches the ground, it doesn't care where it falls. The sun draws up the water into the clouds and they go where the wind takes them. There are no borders for the clouds, only places to go. Mountains catch them and sometimes collect the water they bring and send it down when the sun melts the ice and snow. When children dance in a puddle, they did not ask it from where it came, they only know that it is wet and fun to play in. The water cascades down on all people, regardless of who they are. It washes away the mud and the dirt and renews the earth and helps plants to grow. It wets everyone equally, yes the rain falls on us all.

Take up our cause and fight for what is yours, says the despot as he sits in his sanctuary. Our national sovereignty is threatened he cries, as he rallies the masses into a tizzy and then a frenzy of zealous ideals, half of which the normal person does not understand. Yesterday there was plenty and now there is not enough says the so called supreme leader and his council. How funny it is that we ate bread yesterday and there is bread to eat today, so what lack is he speaking of? Still, he rambles on and grumbles about what our neighbors have that we do not, all the while he and his idea logs get rich off of plunder and spoil. Some stand up in dissent, and they are called unpatriotic, or traitorous, simply because they want to know why they should be angered and what they will be fighting for? So on goes the despot raving about what we have lost or do not have, while he yet craves more power than he already has. So to what end does he bring his nation and his people to ruin, only for an ideal that he alone understands.

We are here for a moment in the grand scheme of things. Like flowers of the field, we blossom then we fade in the heat of the day. For one glorious moment we bloom and show a brief bit of beauty. It is the reality of life that we must accept that we are only a small part of a greater thing. That beyond one existence lies another and infinitely more. We are just visiting one plain until we pass on to another.

Many doors lay before me, some are closed and some are opened. Some will be for the future and some are for the here and now. I hold some of the keys while others have control of the locks. Some doors can lead to the past and some can take you to no where. Knowing which door to take is often tricky. Sometimes if you go through a door, it will close behind you and if you wait too long to go through a door, it will close and you cannot reopen it. Life is full of choices, thus we must be careful as to which doors we take.

A child is diagnosed with cancer and they say all hope is lost, because the parents can't pay the bill. Then a place is created, where there is no cost and the little child is saved. A mother has no home and no place to stay. Her husband drank up all of his pay. She is cold in hungry with her children, begging in the street. She considers looking through the trash just to find something to eat .Then a stranger sees her and offers her a hand, she is taken to a place of hope, where you can start again. The people don't ask any questions, they simply mend broken lives. They put her back her back on her feet and make everything all right. An old person lives in solitude, their years have flown past. No one comes to see them, they have been forgotten and are alone. They live in a house that is falling down and have no where else to go. A neighbor sees their predicament and wonders what they can do. Then they join with a few others and before they are threw, the house has been made whole and the lonely person has new friends. The problem has been taken care of and it has happened once again. Kindness has found a way and opened up a path, for someone to make a miracle happen just because they were willing to act.

Square and deep and made of wood, a place where my toys were kept. To be sat on or a platform from which to speak to my audience of loyal subjects who sat quietly where I had placed them. A stumbling block when I was half awake in the wee hours of the morning. A place to have a meal with a four legged friend. I place to kneel upon when I needed to pray. A simple red toy box was many things to me.