Dream III

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Dream III

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The Voyage of Kings

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The Diamond

 (My Passion)

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      The Promise,  The Gathering,  and The Forgiving . . .

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and The Promise

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The Wind, knows The Way

(Home)

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setting out on an early August morning, upon a path barely revealed amid the waist-high grasses, walks a boy, eyes bright with promise, and keeping a determined pace in hopes of finding the source of the voices before the noonday sun found him too far from the deep quiet shade of his yard, now miles distant . . .

this, his third attempt, after brief and random excursions well within sight of home, was to be his most daring, for he had never ventured this far out onto the Downs alone before, and without a single cloud to obscure an endlessly pale blue sky, his loneliness had become all the more complete . . .

high above, a chevron, small and dark to his periodic gaze, circling in long, lazy arcs, soars an eagle, there since daybreak when his voyage began . . . he longed, for just a moment, to share its domain, to see with its eyes, to know all that lay beyond his earthbound view . . .

the last trace of the morning’s dew left its mark upon his passage, leaving cool and silvery trails upon his skin, reminding him of his thirst . . . yet before his thoughts became a wish, he heard the sound of the stream, running somewhere up beyond a rise, and as he slowly gave himself to the height of Wonder, the splendor fell away below him to a wide and verdant plain, a great and glorious valley in the Sun . . .

and there, for all the world to see, standing along the shores of the stream, standing in the Light of All Things Dear, were the Lilies, with hearts as one, singing with voices as bright as the Dawn . . . and with the palms of his hands, he dries the tears from his eyes, and beholds the sight of ten thousand Angels, all heralding the return of Love, Again, all telling him of a place called Avalon, all bathing him in the sweet awareness that each and every one knows that he bears the name, of Hope . . .

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The Rain, of Joy

(from a single Ray of Hope)

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and as the Angel of Love gazes down upon this child of the Night, this child of broken dreams and shattered vows, this child of sorrow and loneliness, She wraps him within the warmth of Her embrace, and the glory of Her smile . . .

and as She gently brushes the tears from His face, She sings to him, of a supreme joy, of an endless peace, of a wondrous place, a promised land of uncountable rainbows all sailing across the sky upon his every wish, where he alone can choose the colors of sunset, and open his arms wide to a myriad of friends to call his very own . . .

and She sings to him a story of a butterfly, who once held the flame of a candle to guide ten thousand ships of Light into the abyss of darkness, and about the grace of God, and of Her heart, and of Her infinite kindness, and all are waiting for him within the shelter of Her everlasting covenant called Love, Again . . .

and as the child feels the touch of the Angel’s hand upon his face, the cool water of Her silken caress upon his skin, he regards Her spectral majesty through the electrified mists of Her radiant wonder, which were all born dancing, there among the galaxies of Her eyes . . .

and just as the child begins to understand that he is staring into the heart of everything, into the very essence of the origins of Because, he sees shining, luminescent pearls of long-forgotten though ever-remembered bliss cascading down the ivory softness of Her once loved and still lovely face . . .

and these, are the warm and wonderful tears of Heaven, and the child’s long-lost though love-longing heart suddenly begins to quiver, while the heart of the Night, so deep and so desperate inside the vast and vacant reaches of nowhere, slowly but surely, begins to quake . . .

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*       *       *

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A Phoenix Rose

(an Echo’s Return)

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as a lone rider, a fifth horseman, draws ever closer to the edge of Paradise, the gaze of the mockingbird, Her silent though vigilant sentry, cloaks Him within Her myth, and Her mist, a mist born of such heartbreaking abandon and such overwhelming sadness, that although He wanders nevermore among the fears and the follies of men, He falls, nonetheless, to His knees . . .

and yes, there in His hand is a rose more lovely than the smiles of ten thousand Angels, as His voice, as liquid, as cool water, falls over the air between them like a soft summer rain, and in whispers . . . I, am Ever, and my love is for Always, and I have walked all the days of Infinity in search of just one rose to compare with the Light of all Creation, a rose as lovely as the smile on the face of Grace . . . so please, I do seek to tell Her, then, that Ever, has finally come home, again . . .

as He regards the steadfast and ironclad portals and watchtowers of Her beloved dominion, and considers all they were designed to welcome, and all they were engineered to withstand, it was only when the mockingbird, before whom all shall pass, quietly nodded her assent, that somewhere, off in the not-so-distant half-light of another unfolding symphony of moments, did the Gates of Dawn begin to open . . .

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and high over His head, flying for Always toward the troubled waters of a place called Urth, is the ibis, born Resolute, with her eyes toward the Reason Why, and bearing her burden with such an infinite and genuine grace . . . a crown, of Her glorious and eternal understanding, a crown, of Her absolute and unwavering forgiveness, oh yes a crown, of scarlet roses, and bearing not a single thorn . . . and she is soaring still, the ibis, ever higher and ever closer, toward a shimmering pale-blue gem in a dawn-struck velvet sky, bringing forth at last and once and for all, the return of the Light, of Love, Again . . .

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and no one had known

Where Ever Was

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until His candle was heard, because Ever was just gone, and without a trace, and without a single word . . . and all throughout the kingdom, and all throughout the land, nowhere was heard even the sound of Ever, save for the hiss of falling sand . . .

now as this sand fell through Her OurGlass, the hiss slowly became a sigh, and the sigh was all She could Ever hear, as She waited for the aeons to pass . . . then one day the sigh became an echo, and the echo soon became His words, as if all His words had arrived on wings, as if carried by a flock of birds . . .

and the words that came from Ever then, when in Her heart they came to rest, Angel, toward the tears that lay upon your face, I so kneel in Sorrow’s quest, for I have caused the ruin of All, be it north, south, east, or west . . . and I know not when I am coming home, my hope is one day soon, but until that day, I can only pray, by the light of this august moon . . .

remember, for all that time, and for all those years, no one knew where Ever was, only an echo of His voice was heard, this whisper in the land of Because . . . and so, the search was apace, to discover the place, where this whisper could have indeed sought to fly, and ‘Lo and Behold took the leap I am told, by pointing, to a pale-blue gem, in a dark velvet sky . . .

however, be it January or be it June, there is only one such august moon, and no one is ever really sure of the Reason Why, and since the coordinates are known, and therefore the whisper, too, has now been shown, both come from that same pale-blue gem, in that very same dark velvet sky . . .

meanwhile, deep inside the heart of Always, because for Ever She waited and for Ever She longed, one truth rang out so very clear . . . this day, had just become one day for Ever, and for Ever, one day, has finally dawned . . .

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The Gathering

(of Angels)

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and still the ring, the resonance, the rhythm felt beating beneath the very Universe itself wraps around my heart, as if to bless or assess my allegiance to an echo of long millennia past, and all millennia to be, as I slowly caress Remember, as we dance to forget the Night . . .

and, if you listen very closely, from so far ago and so achingly clear, you will hear the story of every tear Ever cried, as they walk all the days of Infinity in search of a single rose as lovely as the smile on the face of Always, as they whisper of the glory, and the promise, of Her name . . .

and should Her name be Fulfillment, then I, am, Hope . . .

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The First DoveTale

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The Realm of Wonder

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while this luxurious imminence pours like Grace out over a pale, blue jewel in a crimsoning velvet sky, and both the victors and the vanquished in a war of roses, still bowing their heads in the presence of Because, turn their hearts toward Always, who in turn faces the true Paladin of Her virtue, and yes, the real might of Her forgiveness, arrayed close behind Him . . .

and She bathes them all with a look of brilliant regard, and waiting just until the winds of Change begin to blow, She then whispers to Her gathered Allegiance, just what every soul there needed to know . . . from this very moment on, and until all our moments fade, I so stand in awe of the sacrifice you have made, and whatever you so find in your hearts to do, do so with all of your might, for the ties that bind you to our eternal thanks, are these echoes, of the fall of the Night . . .

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and as the Sun finally sets, down in a meadow of lilies, and children all over the whirled begin laughing at the soft and smiling face on the other side of the moon, a girl in a box long made of Would, and buried deep in a place once called hell, slowly, and so like a swan, lifts up her newborn eyes, to the Light, of a brand new Dei . . .

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The Gathering

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Allusions, of Grandeur

(A Sea, of Glass)

 

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I wake with a start, as if I were being pursued by some unfamiliar or unknowable wraith, or possessed of a foreboding of imminent cataclysm, and just as the billion colors of Dawn recapture the sky . . . and all at once I feel an urgency, a physical tremor of uncertainty wash below this semblance of repose and self-assurance, rumbling deep within my senses, deep within the fabric of Reason, to haunt my frozen fields of doubt, to try and melt the chains of my resolve . . . and just as quickly, these eerie undulations fade from my awareness, leaving a small scar etched upon my heart, and a feeling of being violated by a hideous tendril of fear, a knowing of its presence . . . there, yet impossible to see . . .

still and all, nothing was capable of eclipsing the glory of this, a sunrise of such breathtaking majesty, flowing over me now in a coral-colored blaze, and with a brilliance that seemed to herald far more than just the promise of Day . . . the liquid grace of Sunlight pours over the garden with dazzling abandon, painting the myriad of hues, shades, and textures of a palette of colors far beyond those my mere imagination could ever conjure, and upon all my eyes survey, igniting the vibrant breath of Life within all things near, and dear . . . and there in the distance, I see Her legions of fireflies, like a field of diamonds, dancing in the morning mist, chasing away the edge, of the Night . . .
immersed as well in this spectacular adornment of Light, there too stands the Palace, in all its might and majesty, draped now in these luxuriant rays of awakening . . . I gaze up at the seven lovely spires that crown Her shimmering citadel, all disappearing beyond my earth-bound view into the vast ivory embrace of the clouds, and the heavens slowly spinning around them . . .

because yes, this is the center of Everything, and of the absolute All, this is the source . . . and while never having set foot within its crystalline walls, a feeling of complete peace gently washes over me, a state of mind where no unanswered question exists, one of knowing with the utmost certainty that here, poised at the heart of Eternity, at the heart of Her entire Universe, is the most cherished of all places, called home . . .

though still quite far away, the Palace nonetheless fills the air with the reflected Light of its presence, as if patiently waiting for all Creation to behold its riveting and triumphant aspect . . . each spire, one of the Seven Points of U, rises up beyond regard, each is a pinnacle of its own glorious virtue, and each, is placed at the absolute height of Wonder . . .

as the parade of Suns begins its journey across the sky, barely visible from my position, just before Heaven’s mystery captures them from sight, up where Hope flies eternal on the wings of a prayer, up where the view finds no limit but Everywhere, and a clarity beyond compromise, wrapped around the face of each tower, as far as Her eyes could ever see, are the Windows, of Always . . .

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and out over the fields and the forests of Her dominion, rising up and away, slipped from the delicate grasp of Dawn’s veil of mist, soaring toward the sound of watchtower bells, out toward the deep dark velvet of a cosmos so far beyond the Reach, toward a morning yet to be on the other side of the Night, on the distant shores of a place called Urth, flies the ibis . . .

and held aloft by the whispers of God, she sets her gaze across the celestial sea, laden with her burden of Glory, a crown of roses, yet and ever guided by the hands of Time, and the grace of Angels . . . and within her heart she carries the hopes and dreams of all Creation, and Destiny knows that her name and her purpose, are Resolute . . .

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The Second DoveTale

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The Crown of Roses

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an ibis flies, low and slow, out over the fields, the forests, the mountains and the majesties of man’s kind, and he sees . . . all the poverty, and all the pain, fading away, back to Then, and all the suffering, and all the sorrow, hiding in the mists, of Never Again . . .

and all the women of the world, now claiming what had always been theirs, and to be granted full passage, to all of the whys, and all of the wheres . . . and all throughout Heaven, was not a breath barely taken, until All Things Dear knew, that they, too, had not been forsaken . . .

and as each one of them began falling, into the loving arms of It Was So, came the seven trumpets of Dawn, and as one, they all began to blow . . . and before the ibis can summon the courage, to ask a tern to dance, he takes one last look at Hope, and sees a ghost of a chance . . .

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a child, long without the comfort of affection, or the simple joy of a smile, or just the shelter of a kindness, walks courageously out upon a Sea of Glass, and slowly begins to pick up all of the glistening peaces of Love, Again that have fallen since the coming of The Reign, only to place them, and one by one, inside his joyous and overflowing heart . . .

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The Gathering

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Into The Forest, of Sound

(go I)

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the myriad of Suns, Her ever-present parade of Light, guides me onward still, resuming its majestic voyage above when the Dawn cracks the sky once more . . . we quietly regard each other’s passage, and so bearing witness, and perhaps a bit of wonder, toward each of our respective tasks, knowing that our paths have indeed converged at last, in this place, where the Reason Why was born . . .

as my spirit savors the enchantment of my surroundings, from far to the east, the point from which I too have traveled, comes a delicate but deliberate rush of wind, exquisitely soft and achingly slow, yet with a purpose, and most assuredly a passion, and all without a trace of restraint . . . and laced within its captivating arrival is a voice, Her voice, riding the Light straight into my soul . . . Angel, you are All that Is, ever my Will Be, and my Was . . . you are why I Am, and, for always, you are my Because . . .

and as sure as the Morning has made Her promise to the Day, so too has She spoken to me, and as I pause to recover my senses, breathing deeply of the rarefied air of awareness, watching the moments unfold like a dream before my eyes, Her words sail across a rose-blushed sky, like diamonds, like butterflies, soaring high above the long-forgotten fields of my thoroughly bewildered heart . . .

and just before Her voice fades back into the mist, it becomes, all at once and yet again, an indescribably beautiful feather of Light, like a candle’s flame, rising in delicate swirls to meet the azure tide of the coming day, until transforming itself into a single ray of Hope, to live, as always, inside a lover’s heart . . . and as my gaze fell toward the horizon once more, and the Palace resumed its singular presence among all my eyes could ever have the honor to survey, I was not completely decisive in wondering whether the shimmering aspect of its walls was due to my spellbound imagination, or my tears . . .

this last mystery would have to keep for another time, as I must navigate one final course through what could only be my one final endeavor, gaining the consent required to allow me passage into Her crystal sanctuary . . . waiting there, balanced, centered, and on a rise, solitary and silent, amidst an immense and rolling sea of trees, all standing as sentinels, ancient and strong and wise, defending the virtues of Her empire, as they are now, protecting this extraordinary jewel set upon the luxurious velvet of a deep hunter’s green . . .

and from somewhere off in the distant reaches of this forest, and closer still to what must surely be the end of my journey, there comes another sound, with an urgency shrouded in its meaning, and a point so cleverly veiled in its aim . . . and until this very moment, no sight or sorrow had ever before pierced my heart as sharply as the blade of this truth . . . for the sound was of a single tree, falling, and it was as alone as it ever could be . . .

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The Third DoveTale

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The Flame of Desire

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the willow stands waiting in a glorious vale of abundance, with a ribbon of Love fluttering gently within its stalwart boughs, as a child comes walking toward the voices he began to hear so long ago, and who now finds himself standing before ten thousand Angels, all singing in the afterglow of a new morning Sun . . .

and he pulls from his pocket an ancient coin, quite pummeled and polished, once forged in a kingdom come and gone long ago, an empire now two millennia dead . . . remembering still the odd intensity of the look in his grandmother’s eyes, as she passed her most sacred treasure to him on the very day she died . . .

and on this day, and at this moment, just like the countless other moments since this small bit of gold came into his life, he is mesmerized by the sight of what lies in the palm of his hand . . . as always, he sees two remarkable images emblazoned on either side of the coin, the first bears an exquisite likeness of a truly beautiful and exceedingly rare kind of rose, and the other is the very same face as that of the eagle soaring high above him, in long and lazy arcs, and in a clear and cloudless sapphire sky . . .

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and somewhere deep inside a Web of Pearls, a candle, whose Light was once cast far across this Universe, to each and every curve and corner of Creation in search of a place called home, whose flame had guided vast armies back from the abyss of annihilation, brought the very darkness to its knees, tears to the eyes of Always, and even caused the Stars to fade, if only for a moment, suddenly begins to find itself slowly transformed into something grand, and something wise . . .

and in this, there exists one small paradox to ignite a sparkle even in Destiny’s discerning eye, and that is when one considers all the souls in this entire Universe that the Light from this candle had touched during its incredibly long and quite pivotal voyage . . . it allowed the nearly uncountable, to see what was always thought to be unknowable, and therefore, had revealed to us all the best reason to see the darkness for exactly what it was, and, now more than ever, to see and to understand exactly what lies in the darkness within ourselves as well . . . yet the fact still remains, the candle, could not see, itself . . .

and not only could the candle not see that it was no longer made of wax, but of clay, and as far as everyone would always know, it was fired in the finest and most spirited color of blue . . . however and yet, little did the candle know, that its very flame was, too . . . and this blue, is the color, of Truth . . .

and in the end, not only was the mighty Chaos blinded by the Light of this small though fearless candle, but within that Light He saw himself for exactly what He was, and what He was, was no one worth knowing at all . . . and so, right then and there, before the eyes of All Creation, on his knees and his head bowed low before the Reason Why, Chaos gave up his conquest of Heaven, and surrendered to the generosity of Her compassion, to the glory of Her understanding, and to the grace of Her forgiveness . . . which is precisely what happens, when the Light of Truth is cast, upon all it was ever meant to shine upon . . .

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The Gathering

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The Falling, Leaves

(a Ring)

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just as silk would feel upon my skin, a delightful coolness wraps itself around me as I step within the vast and cathedral-like atmosphere of Her forest, so primal, so peaceful, so pristine . . . and from this moment on, so begin wave upon wave of thoughts and ideas, disquisitions and suppositions, declarations and speculations, and all are laced within a quiet, almost subliminal symphony of logic . . . and all are inciting my mind to dance as if caught in a frenetic dervish, in the vain hope of ever beginning to grasp each and every ion of insight available to me . . .

a stillness . . . absolute, and complete . . . where Silence comes to reflect, and where echoes go to fade away . . . where the slightest sound is the Light of Her candle, sitting so high up there behind a virtual sea of glass, behind Her window, just inside the Seventh Point of U, and burning bright and blue, as always, and waiting for Ever . . . I sense that without its piercing luminescence, and its absolute constancy, my journey would be shrouded in doubt or uncertainty, for even here, shadows play across my path like errant children, all hoping that I might forget my purpose, and indeed all praying I will forget my promise . . .

the utter quiet, so tangibly real, mythical in age, titanic in its wisdom, and as limitless as the hope found in a single moment, awaits my silent footsteps . . . for this hallowed ground upon which I walk is a rich and flourishing mantle of untold varieties of ivy, moss and fern, blanketing or complimenting what must surely be an eternity of fallen leaf, needle, cone, and twig . . . and then there are the succulent scents and fertile fragrances of a natural world so completely in balance with itself, and echoing its thriving abundance with an aromatic perfection to enthrall the senses beyond limit . . . it is all I can do to resist this perfumed hush of temptation, and lay down upon this welcoming cradle of serene, for I know that once wrapped inside the cloak of sleep, I will be soon gone and never to return from within the fabled Land of Yon . . .

I am walking through an arboreal fortress, where my presence is dwarfed by the majesty and magnitude of these towering sentinels, each as old as Time, or Rhyme, each as old as Love itself, rising up so far beyond the Pale, and always reaching for the Reason Why . . . and I am in awe that most are climbing beyond sight, beyond might, endless parades of magnificent pillars of oak, of pine, of cedar, alder, birch and hemlock, and from redwood, spruce, and fir, to maple, ash, and elm . . .

and there are those of strange and unnamed places, adorned in bark of every girth and grain, leaves of every hue and cry, and all are standing so resolute, in grand and glorious colonnades of Knowledge . . . for in all the Universe, there is nothing more ancient, and there is nothing more complete, and there is nothing more sacred, than the memory of trees . . .

then my eyes catch a brief flicker of movement, a tiny flash of urgency yet again, perhaps telling me to hasten my steps, to tarry not one moment further, when upward from her long branch of regard rises the mockingbird once more . . . flying unchallenged and unafraid in the midst of these gigantic monoliths, navigating her way among these titans of solitude, leading me toward the sum of my intentions, to the point of all my endeavors, to the very voice that dwells inside my calling . . .

and through it all she rose, up beyond my range of sight, up beyond these shafts of Light, where moons and stars once might have trod, where all that remains are the silent thoughts of God, because, there was, no sky . . .

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The Voyage of Kings ~ A StoryTeller's Dream

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