Sixteen years have passed and every second seems like a lifetime, and those years that have passed are like some sort of banner, or pennant flying over the field. A place where it seems there are both desperate women and men who are all divided trying to make some sort of getaway through the fallen leaves.

Hearing what I thought was fortune calling to me, and I stumbled to my feet and left the shadows where I was sitting, and entered the marketplace which was full of merchants and thieves all hungry for power. I had my last deal go down under the cold blooded moon, and then followed the smell of those meadows near the watchtower. Riding past the destruction lying there in the ditches, and the dog soldier’s eyes were reflected in the moonlight as I headed past them out of town. Following that empty road to where it leads, and occasionally hearing those wailing chimes caused by the storm out there on the horizon. Having my mind slip back and think of those empty rooms in my mind where her memory is protected, and the other rooms where the angels whispered to those souls in previous times.

Now with the sun’s dark light breaking through in a false dawn finds me near some rolling rocks near some broken chains and mountain laurel. Out here in the foothills of those mist covered mountains I am feeling like Eden is burning, and I might need to brace myself for a possible elimination. For all the hearts need to have courage when the changing of the guards takes place and peace will come eventually. With tranquility and splendor riding on wheels of fire, but there will be no reward when those false idols fall in flames. And Morpheus’ sister Death will surrender as her pale ghost horse retreats.

Still I will probably be there come the day with my reasons for it all. And still wondering when I feel the shadows on me if I should stop right where I stand and look and see those lines on my hands, as those finest silver threads slowly unwind in that web between my fingers which holds all those things I have left behind. Traveling further down the line and seeing the lightning flashing out on the horizon, and has me recalling that it is striking and chiming for warriors whose strength is not to fight and for; the rebel, the refugees and their flight, the soldiers of the night, along with those underdogs that have been spat on, and for the luckless. And those outcasts in the ditches which are tried and burned at the stake for all the crimes that are both real and imagined. Striking also for the gentle, meek, and the kind.

Moving on as those thoughts turn to other things and of those like me that seem condemned to be drifting down the trails and roads that call and have me heading on down the line. Now hearing some of the “gentlemen” talking nearby and knowing I should use the time and ride out here on these plains under that midnight moon out near the river. It seems at times as though I am living in a world where life and death are memorized, out here where I feel nothing from their zero option game they try to continually play. Where beauty of most forms goes unrecognized and nothing is felt but the heat from those dark eyes that seem to turn to vacuum and burn when I pass them by. Time is short and sweet with each passing day and I know I’m carrying sins like them, with passion sometimes rules and flies like an arrow finding and hitting its mark.

Deep inside I know that their dream world is soon to end, and still they stand there talking about how sweet revenge can be and I am sure it must be in some way or form. Now hearing the cock crowing some distance away and taking all of it in as I pass another soldier who’s sitting there deep in prayer, as I make a sign of the cross and offer to her wherever she is a prayer. Noticing the darkness that seems to be everywhere and at times smells like a tomb, but then again it is never truly silent in the halls of the dead, and dignity is the first thing to die.

And thinking I just might be looking for those lost and forgotten years, and passing beyond those bordertowns filled with despair that are on the banks of those rivers of blindness near that valley of bone dry dreams after having taken all those things given to me and having stood my ground, till there’s nothing left to see. Knowing that silence can be like thunder, and at times I don’t know what else to do as time seems to be running away.

Copyright: Timberwolf International LTD. April 2016 – 22