The Shelter of Kindness
over The Fields and The Forests of So It Was, where Legions of Lilies stand or sway, and as Always, there to dance in The Wind’s Ballet, The Wrens of Ever gather for one final Thrust into The Hearts of Men, to tear asunder the Shackles of Their Blind Desire, and to free from Their Souls the Burdens of Their Empires, that have laid to want and to waste, All The Foundations of The Truth upon which They were built, and justly so, are now left crumbling under The Wait, and under The Will, of Avarice . . .
and somewhere beneath the rubble, struggling for a precious Breath of Light, resolute in Its Quest to find a significant Foothold in The Soil of Reason, and of Redemption, stands a single Rose, quietly learning to grow, without Thorns . . .
from Dream I – The Eleventh DoveTale