some talk of destiny,
like they have met before,
so much unrest in me,
going back to the times of yore,

needing quiet and above core of a bustling, busy
sleepless island streets, needing noisy trees and
a West coast breeze, needing some distance
to lend a farm hand a hand, needing times in
a city with not the tower, to refresh my batteries.

call me a dreamer, from where you are
the triathlon, want I to run is reading,
writing,
sleeping
so I can digest, express and dream of
kinder times where imaginings touch
is never enough.

Refresh not the force field, but the power
of the yield ... knowing when to stop
and when to go is more power than
you know, and if the veil and the
mail made of chain should brush
as they fall to the floor...
worry not for I will have already closed the door...