We are stubborn oak, weathered by time; the sea in our roots; indelibly etched with histories; generations of shriveled feet entrenched in shifting sand; ankles manacled by smug doctrine- a vanity of wigs; a conceit of hollow gestures; a chaos of language caught at the throat by immortal diamonds.
Behind the darkened mirror sits shadows of lost children cowardly nailed; confined to straddle a pen of brittle palings. They sway both ways (from side to side) singing lullabies to a faceless doll:
“Sleep my little one, sleep...”
Never to sleep. We are destined to eternal night, weeping for escape from discordant ghosts wreathed with barbs, sharp reminders of The Hidden One.
Are you prepared for a reading?
I see fattened thieves squeal to redolent notes of Victory that is 'The Hymn of Life'. Puppets, no longer orchestrated, become their own Masters, no longer believers of illusions. Then stepping through window's shattered glass, discover the New Child illuminated by an astonished look, dancing in the gushing fountain of Delight.