ZanaDew Falls

  

 

 The Smile,  on Irony’s Face

(  when Truth,  be known  )

 

 

Journal Entry: 

August 26th,  2011,  10:35pm

 

Prologue:  The Rail of Sighs

 

ZanaDew Falls,  is not a place . . . it is,  at this precise moment,  a state of mind that defies even the breadth my own understanding . . .

I suppose that anyone might well imagine,  that I possess a reasonable grasp upon reality,  despite the essence of the content or craft displayed hereIn,  which,  might certainly leave some to contest even that claim . . . for I have quite a long and colorful history of causing more than a few pairs of eyes to glaze over in polite bewilderment,  or abject disregard,  for having ventured into spheres of a spiritual awareness or philosophy not readily understood by any conventional modes of thought or expression . . .

be that as it may,  I have never lacked for an audience . . . and my blessings are such,  that no one has ever questioned the depth of the passion that drives the spirit of this storyteller,  nor the commitment to the ideals of which I speak,  regardless of their lofty or seemingly unattainable portrayals . . . this,  however,  is a subject for another time,  and another day . . .

ZanaDew Falls,  is an expression,  fraught with my usual blend of applied elasticity to the king’s english,  though certainly designed to illustrate,  that nothing was,  as it shall seem . . . in other words,  if this vessel of my endeavors remains ~aDrift on this River of Words~ much longer,  then the inevitable result will be what I fear that Fate may have placed into the flow of things . . . and that,  as you may well have already imagined,  goes by the name,  of ZanaDew Falls . . .

and it’s once merely faint and vaporous whisper,  so far off in the distance,  now seems to echo with more than a subtle fury,  and heralding a purpose that God could only begin to know,  though whose Intent is surely designed to test the Faith,  that I have spent more than half of my life writing about,  within the pages of The Voyage of Kings . . .

as this world continues to maintain its balance upon the razor’s edge of uncertainty,  where the events of the day seem to bring us further and further from the point,  or purpose,  in this grand though dubious Design,  we are left with nothing more than the strength of our convictions to hold our place within it,  regardless of the forces that seek to fray the fragile and care-worn tapestry of our belief in the very process . . .

and therein lies the thread,  of my unwavering and ever-present discontent . . . and so,  this story,  begins . . .

 

Seen I:  The Paths of Desire

 

I came into being on this planet in 1953,  among the gray-weathered shingles and gold-spun marshlands on the wind-driven shores of old Cape Cod,  Massachusetts,  and suffered along with most everyone else the slings and arrows of a truly ordinary existence,  one that holds very few regrets,  and more than the average bestowal of blessings . . . while there were many times I wanted to hold Fate accountable for events or circumstances beyond the realms of fairness or reason,  and had spent uncountable hours barking at the Moon for the world’s evils and injustices,  all in all,  there are very few things that I would wish to do differently,  given that at the time,  and to this day,  doing my very best has always defined the path and caliber of honoring my obligations . . .

I have polished my varied capacities and crafts with diligence and boundless determination,  having been schooled early on ( at age 15 ) in the art of specialized ingenuity,  purely for the sake of lower-than-middle-class survival,  and because the ivied halls of academia were not even remotely visible in my particular crystal ball,  I became versed in a wide spectrum of trades such as carpentry,  masonry,  painting,  irrigation,  fencing,  paving,  grading,  landscaping,  and operating heavy equipment by my mid-twenties . . . and by then,  finding myself not only married,  but 1,500 miles from the place of my birth,  three years into a career building tennis court facilities in Florida for the quite-wealthy and semi-famous,  along with a vast array of recreational systems and surfaces,  athletic complexes,  ball fields,  sports lighting,  and health and fitness equipment,  that would infinitely broaden my creative horizons,  while spanning the course of the next two decades . . .

the 1980’s came and went with two significant events . . . the first being the glorious birth of my son,  and the inherent joys of building a home and environment around this pure manifestation of the meaning of Life itself,  and whose presence would clearly define and personify even the greatest mysteries and majesties of God,  and therefore,  of Love . . . and whose legacy,  holds steadfast and resolute my allegiance,  to the sum of all things dear . . .

the second event,  though certainly paling in the shadow of the first,  was my initial foray into the broader and more complex aspects of business ownership and management,  along with reaching for and eventually earning a reputation for delivering a high level of craftsmanship and artistic precision,  as well as the effective governance and oversight of project operations . . . these skills,  along with the dawn of the computer age,  over the next ten years would eventually dovetail into administrative,  marketing,  and sales experience,  and finally,  discovering the magic of software and program manipulation for business applications ( on Osbornes,  Olivettis and IBMs ),  while Steve Jobs and Bill Gates were still tinkering away with duct-tape and baling wire out in their respective garages . . . back when even the cell phone,  was just a gleam in someone’s eye . . .

 

Seen II:  The Fields of Dreams

 

the mid-1990’s ushered in yet another pair if circumstances,  to further etch the mark of God’s Hand upon the path of my endeavors . . . and each,  in their own remarkable way,  would cast an equally significant light upon the still emerging pages of what would one day be known,  as a storyteller’s dream . . . and once again,  steer the course of things over the next decade of my life,  and beyond . . .

and meanwhile,  quite another dovetale had been slowly weaving its way into the still unrecognized pattern of all that would come to pass . . . and this,  was an already full-blown and deeply seated passion for music,  which is best portrayed via a story currently residing here on this websight ( in Dream I – The Gift ) and whose very existence within this symphony of moments ensured that all else,  would find its proper place . . .

the second first,  of the aforementioned,  is one that stands as a certifiable rarity in even the vast extent of this world’s population,  and one that remains the most singular of experiences within the realms of Fate or Destiny,  to ever occur in anyone’s time on this earth . . . and be it a blessing or curse ( I happen to think the former ),  mere words fail to convey its very magnitude,  and even my vivid imagination has yet to fully grasp its implications . . . for I was literally and figuratively graced,  by the glory,  of a Bolt of Lightning . . . in the late afternoon,  of a late summer day,  in the year,  of 1995 . . . ( see The Velvet Hammer )

and while this,  by itself,  could be viewed as being dictated by the whims of Chance ( the odds of becoming a lightning victim in the U.S. in any one year is 1 in 700,000;  the odds of being struck in one’s lifetime is 1 in 3,000 ),  there is more to this tale than readily meets the eye . . . for in the previous 16 months,  I had undergone two additional encounters with this very same force of Nature,  though with far less physical intimacy than the first,  yet with all the ever-heightening expectation,  that something wondrous,  this way,  comes . . . ( see By The Tail of an Iron Horse, Book I – The Ninth DoveTale – The Windmills of Eden )

and the second milestone,  in this altogether extraordinary decade,  came back around to my travails within the arena of my craft,  having built my way into choice and highly prestigious projects,  until,  one day,  I was afforded the opportunity to manage what would become the pinnacle of a 25 year career,  and was introduced to an amazing individual who possessed the keys to a kingdom of fabled proportions,  and whose exacting standards were the stuff of legends and nightmares within the construction industry . . .

while traversing the eventual site of this anxiously anticipated project,  the man himself happened by with his usual entourage,  radiating his customary aura of rather intimidating authority and presence,  and uttered the very words to me,  that would stand as the bellwether in my long relationship with him . . . here’s the deal,  if you build it perfect,  I won’t rip it out . . . can you do it ? . . . and,  as the records will show,  that not only did this project receive a national award for excellence when completed in 1996,  it was obviously never “ripped out”,  and still stands as a hallmark of my craft 15 years later,  down in the sunny climes of Palm Beach,  Florida,  at a well-known and quite legendary place in its own right,  called Mar-A-Lago . . . and thus ensuring my place in this man’s organization for the next ten years . . . and his name,  is Mr. Donald J. Trump . . . and oh yes,  the stories I could tell . . .

 

Seen III:  The Bend in The River

 

the advent of the third millennium heralded not only the dissolution of fears regarding the global meltdown of Y2K,  but a panorama of quite promising and intriguing possibilities,  balanced against the realities of one’s expectations,  and as always,  the ramifications of one’s choices and decisions,  right or wrong . . . and these inevitable outcomes presented themselves with their usual unexpected alterations,  in either design or intent,  and rarely were they hued in the rose-colored afterglow of one’s strategic plans or desires . . . 

this new beginning brought to a close the final chapter of my 23 year marriage,  and whose pages deserve far more consideration than can be portrayed here with all the respect that is due . . . and while the phantom of failure is a cloak not easily shed,  the only positive path from darkness is toward the light,  where forgiveness waits for any heart willing enough to surrender,   and courage enough to face the reflection of one’s own deeds . . . and this ~terrible beauty~ was so expressed by the words of my son,  who told me it was time,  to ” go,  and find happiness ” . . . and so I did . . .

needless to say,  that particular treasure remains as elusive as the wind,  like trying to harness a butterfly,  or putting words to the thoughts of Silence,  or ever finding the place where echoes go to die . . . yet I remain steadfast in my pursuit,  knowing that Destiny only smiles upon those who try . . . and by the middle of this decade,  after viewing life from a vantage point very few ever get to see,  and with a wink and a nod,  I left the auspicious embrace of Mr. Trump’s gilded empire,  so fortunate enough to have been measured by the value of my contributions,  and so blessed to have been valued,  by the measure of my worth . . . and with my prayers firmly strapped to my wings,  I set out for a place on no one’s map but my own,  whose legend said it was the oldest seaside resort in America,  and whose name had a certain ring to it,  as though some ancient  memory whispered of a story just waiting to be told,  and all it needed,  was a voice . . . ( see Trepidations, aSighed from Book I, The Seventh DoveTale – The Pageant of Lilies ) 

and while leaving behind a life of 35 years does not easily lend itself to the notion of never looking back,  it was certainly time to forego the usual drift of sentiment,  as this particular adventure held just the right amount of mystery,  an undeniable sense of the promise of unimagined thresholds of opportunity,  the conviction that whatever remained of the passions in my life were to be resurrected in the dawn of this great unknown,  and more than all else,  was the knowing,  that never would a time such as this come my way again,  and never would any other place on earth offer up exactly what I was born to take hold of,  on the very shores of a little town called Pawleys Island,   and waiting at the very edge,  of a StoryTeller’s Dream . . . ( see The Why of It,  To Ignite The Sun )

  

Seen IV:  The Light upon a Dark

 

the spring of the year 2006,  the 53rd in the cycle of seasons that have come and gone in the flow of sand within my hourglass . . . and as I gazed upon what had already fallen,  bearing the sum of all my days,  and all my prays,  each bane and every blessing gathered under the wait of still more to follow,  I was left to ponder the  number of grains that remained,  and the gravity to which they would soon surrender,  and Time,  I now realized,  would only favor the Why of things left undone,  and would always leave the When,  to account for things on its own . . . and before the next moment could grasp the Reason for Because,  that ancient whisper of a memory blew again through the corridors of my heart . . . seize the Day . . .

in the successive years since bearing the glorious impact of that Velvet Hammer,  there was rarely a time when it’s aftermath did not affect each and every aspect of my life . . . any and all relationships,  both personal and business,  were subsequently influenced by my newly perceived purpose within the circles of these respective associations,  and whenever or wherever I found a glimmer of anticipation or awareness,  I never failed in those moments to regale any listener with the magic and magnitude of this endless stream of divine inspiration . . . and by this time,  I had amassed a rather prodigious quantity of poems,  prose,  essays,  romantic verse,  letters,  and a myriad of thoughts put to the pen,  including scores of hundreds of postings in on-line writer’s forums,  chat rooms,  and bulletin boards,  all studiously collected,  collated,  and copied into a massive array of documents,  which,  if I included each supportive draft and preliminary sketch,  numbered well over 50,000,  and all stamped with the time,  date,  and place of creation . . . ( see The Prelude ( when Dawn cracked The Sky ),  in About The Book )

on more occasions than I care to recall,  I had ventured into the misbegotten meadows of publishing,  received every form of  “we’re sorry” ever composed,  expended the obligatory dues to self-righteously publish-on-demand ( to no demand at all ),  built a 300 page website in 2006,  a 3,000 page website in 2009,  and ever wondering why I chose writing poetry as a hobby instead of ice-fishing or sword-swallowing or collecting hood ornaments . . . and knowing full well,  that this endeavor was never really a simple matter of choice,   and could more truthfully be referred to as an obsession,   and that I had long ago lost sight of any balanced perspective,  or reasonable objective,  beyond the manner,  means,  and method displayed before you now,  and which I had placed most entirely in The Hands,  of Come What May . . .

and on that fateful spring evening,  when that ancient whisper was heard,  I was by chance sitting by the light of a candle,  alone save for my thoughts,  and the stirrings of expectation that are borne on the earliest breezes of a summer soon to come,  when those very same zephyrs,  like errant children,  began to play havoc with the flame,  and so brought on the veil of the night . . . and little was I yet to know,  that the very moment I had so long been waiting for,  had arrived,  for within this absence of light came the spark,  of the memory,  of an amazing idea . . .  and one,  that bore the weight of that which Destiny sings,  and there within its grasp,  lay The Voyage of Kings . . .  ( see The Berth,  of a Legend – About The Author )

 

 Seen V:  The Mirror of Regard

 

as I stand upon the time-worn and tempest-tossed deck of my craft,  leaning heavily but pensively on this rail of sighs,  my smiling eyes cannot help but follow the course and accumulation of the leaves,  the pages I have wrought,  that seem to shepherd my thoughts toward the very destination they themselves have no choice but to surrender,   while cloaking the depths of this mighty river whose cool,  clear waters have sustained my passion and my purpose,  since long before my memories could ever fathom the reason why . . . and as my shadow grows long with the setting of the sun,  whose place in the sky surely reflects what remains of the days I have left upon this earth,  as the time and the tide of my life flows,  toward the inevitable embrace,  of ZanaDew Falls . . .

and while the flow of this missive might suggest an imminency or climax,  in either degree,  detail or device,  only providence commands the helm of this ship of words,  and only my faith in its design will keep it from floundering upon the shoals of my uncertainty,  hidden,  as they always are,  beneath the surface of my resolve . . . and I know not what lies beyond my visible horizon,  and only the echo of the ever-rising thunder of the Falls can lay claim to my understanding,  that only the Wind wields the compass of this voyage,  only the Wind shapes the contour of my sails,  and only the Wind,  goes by the name,  of Patience . . .

in the late Autumn hours of 2009,  when the glory of it’s crimson and gold aspect had long since given way to the bare chill of a November’s breath,  another momentous tide of change had once again presented itself upon the shoreline of my days . . . amid the still glowing,  spell-binding embers of a StoryTeller’s Dream,  where the magic and majesty of countless moments danced,  brilliant in the reflection of their promise,  began to slowly fade with the realities of a world gone mad from the specter of illusion,  and those dreams began to vaporize,  in the flames of unmitigated avarice . . . and within this “new normal” of global economic turmoil and uncertainty,  my paramour and I had managed,  by the very skin of our teeth,  and caution long since cast upon the waters of circumstance,  to complete our two-year long endeavor,  building a castle made of wood,  in the mountains of North Carolina,  called Sapphire Sky . . . ( see The Sand,  and The OurGlass, in Book I – The Grace of Swans )

though not without extreme sacrifice,  angst-filled days and many sleepless nights,  the seemingly endless surrender of resources to the insatiable pit of incompetence,  sloth,  and unparalleled stupidity,  we finally brought the sum of our collective existence across this threshold one week before Thanksgiving,  and just before the face of the worst winter in a quarter-century turned its frost-bitten gaze in our direction,  and decided to entertain us with five long unremitting and unforgiving months,  of sheer,  arctic,  rage . . . and,  due to our new-found altitude of 4,800 feet above sea-level,  now snow-bound and ice-locked in a little town so ironically named Seven Devils,  our daily prayers would ever begin,  with . . . oh Lord,  what have we done . . .

after dispensing the nine feet of accumulated snowfall and ice,  frozen water pipes,  downed gutters,  tree limbs through windshields,  inaccessible roadways,  700 gallons of burned propane,  and the mental anguish of living without a glimpse of the sun for weeks at a time,  the dying winter slowly gave way to the deliverance of spring,  and the fabled splendor of the Blue Ridge Mountains finally revealed themselves in all their majestic glory . . . so too did our spirits begin to soar,  and revel in the now fading half-light of our fears and uncertainties,  confident now in our decision and direction,  and more than ever,  determined to re-capture the essence of the dreams that so brought us here,  to this cathedral of sapphired skies . . .

 

 Seen VI:  The Sum of All Things Dear

 

and now,  as the very air around me begins to tremble with unbridled anticipation,  and the once placid grace of the river deftly assumes a momentum,  a quickening,  and the fevered rush of sound in the distance seems to blanket all that my eyes survey with the roar of a million lions,  wild and ravenous in its aspect,  a gathering avalanche of purpose so unstoppable in its assault upon my senses,  the mythical siren’s song of a most terrible beauty,  an echo of the voices of uncountable aeons,  and all waiting to share the untold stories that await all humanity,  that lie in the very gleam, and in the very center,  of God’s adoring Eye . . .

and from this extraordinary vantage point,  gazing at will as I am able,  at the reclining profile of Grandfather Mountain,  so close that I can almost touch his thoughts,  as he ponders the stellar mysteries and magnitude of Heaven’s Intent,  as do I . . . and realizing,  that the sum of all that I know,  will never exceed the sum,  of all that I have left to learn . . . and all of these days that I have labored,  here in these fields of God,  they are none but the trials of an ecstasy far greater and more exquisite than even the angels will ever deserve to know . . . and even if my knowing,  is the child of faith and understanding,  even if my knowing,  was forged in the crucible of compassion and forgiveness,  it must always be reflected first in the solemn eyes of wisdom,  before it can ever grace the face,  of so it shall be . . . and until this mighty river surrenders its final secret,  I must first surrender that which my heart has borne for what feels like eternity,  and it all began in the distant fires of creation,  so far ago,  and so very long away,  when I dared to walk all the days of Infinity,  to find but a single rose . . .

in three days time,  September 5th,  2011,  4:00pm will mark a 16 year odyssey that began from the very moment I was struck,  from out of the blue,  by a bolt of such astonishingly remarkable impact,  that it transformed every facet of every conceivable possibility that would ever determine the course and caliber of my life,  and none of which,  could have escaped the inevitable result of being infused by such an overwhelming array of memories,  that to question their source or their authenticity would have surely torn the very fabric of this universe,  not to mention my own sanity . . . for well over a quarter-million words have been ushered into being,  portraying events and circumstances so far beyond natural human experience,  and of a paradigm so far exceeding conventional thresholds of awareness,  and so bewildering in their sheer quantity and unusual modes of illustration,  and in a manner so disturbingly unique in the history of the written word,  that it becomes almost ludicrous to believe that its totality could ever be borne or devised within a single human heart . . .

and if I am wrong,  or if I have over-stepped the boundaries of all that faith could ever grant or govern within the realms of imagination,  then,  may lightning strike the very idea from the core of my existence,  just as it once had struck,  to place it there . . . because,  it is simply a matter,  of why . . . and the why of it,  lies at the very heart of the process,  the purpose,  the path and the passion behind each and every word,  for not a single syllable derives from any notion of invention or ingenuity . . . because the lightning was merely an instrument,  a catalyst,  a spark,  issued for the sole and singular purpose,  of causing me,  to remember . . . and yes,  I say again,  to remember . . .

of an achingly beautiful love story,  wrapped in the profound simplicity of an unknown fairy tale,  cloaked in the mists and myths of the lore known as Camelot,  and whispering of the legends and legacies of Creation’s most unforgivable of sorrows . . . that all began,  with a voyage,  of a king . . . ( see A Bridge,  A Cross,  Eternity in The Prologue  )

 

 Seen VII:  The Chariots of The Sun

 

of all the near countless hearts,  minds,  and souls that have ever dwelled in the still limitless spaces and places upon this earth,  in all the dreams,  schemes,  and themes that have ever graced the innumerable pages and stages of antiquity,  to all the medicine men and minstrels,  balladeers and bards,  seers and shamans,  sages and scholars,  from poets to prophets,  and from the wicked to the wise,  this simple story has remained,  and still remains,  in the province of one . . . who stands before you now,  with the weight and wonder of the ages coursing through his pen,  for the sole and singular purpose of laying at your feet,  the very sum of all his fears,  and his tears,  and most of all,  the very magnitude of his infinite,  everlasting,  and undeniable disgrace . . .

and as the legions of stars emerge,  like diamonds,  across the vast and darkening velvet dominions of the heavens above me,  and the moon slowly turns to face the advent of the night,  to ever witness and still to wonder of what is bound to influence even the memories of all it has seen come to pass,  the river,  whose pace now reflects the rush of thoughts being captured in every breath I take,  an onslaught of echoes caught in the ebb and flow of my emotions,  leads inexorably onward toward the sum of my intent,  and the inevitable consequences of that which I will forever stand in judgment, before all who have gathered,  waiting with the patience of stones for my arrival,  at ZanaDew Falls . . .

and well beyond the reach of chance or circumstance,  stands the specter of my accountability for every iniquity and injustice laid down upon the kingdoms and kindnesses within all that God had ever hoped to create in this Universe, and the endless parade of despair and depravity issued by every selfish means,  motivation or mechanism devised by the avaricious hand of man,  be it disguised as a manifested destiny,  or destined to be manifested as a disguise,  for what shall always stand revealed in the light of truth as the very masquerade of their righteous intentions,  or veiled in the duplicitous robes of honor best reserved for battles waged on the fields of cowardice and conceit,  for the arrogant and unabated conquerings of untold and unremembered multitudes who have fallen under the fiery slings and arrows of pride and property,  to the needless and never-ending rape of innocence,  that stands as the eternal hallmark for all the evils men can do,  when their hearts wear the armor,  of blind and insidious desire . . .

yes these were the armies of my oblivion . . . these were the dogs of chaos I let loose upon the gardens of Avalon,  these were the thieves of promise I allowed to wage wars of want and waste upon the meadows of our abundance,  these were the shrouds of my abandon I permitted to blanket the fields and forests of our fulfillment,  and these were the cries of my sorrows that I orchestrated to haunt the very minds and music of men,  and these were the ghostly horsemen of an apocalypse I unleashed to serve the hand of retribution,  for the crimes that I alone am guilty,  and for the sufferings that I alone have wrought . . . and these are the wages of my sin,  for having set out one day to find glory,  when all I ever needed,  was grace . . .

and while the mirrored phantoms of shame and remorse solemnly tread the care-worn timbers of my vessel,  I turn to acknowledge an endless array of by-gone faces,  and places,  whose ephemeral shadows are now eerily cast upon the moon-spun waters,  and all are standing there,  along the shorelines,  of this river of my regret . . .

 

 Seen VIII:  The Time before Until

 

all that remains,  of a once grand and glorious Because,  now lies hidden in the dust and detritus of a thousand kingdoms and empires come and gone,  buried deep in the wells of our wishes and wistful sighs of what might have been,  the scattered shards of our dreams and desires strewn heedlessly beneath the timeless advance of ideals and ideologies long forgotten,  and those not deserving of remembrance . . . we have built monuments and monoliths to honor that which holds no honor beyond the fleeting adoration of the moment,  while holding hostage the very futures of our children,  in exchange for the paltry ransoms of our immediate gratification . . . we have edificed soaring and gilt-splendored temples to our gods,  that rest upon a billion bones of the unredeemed and unworthy,  as we kneel before the machinery of our faith,  that we might find salvation in the very promise of our ingenuity,  while compassion,  love,  and kindness slowly fade from the pages of our story,  because tomorrow bears no witness,  in the mirror,  of our once upon a time . . .

and while the ring of whatever truth you may hear in these words,  seeks to find a sanctuary in the corridors of your everlasting heart,  there,  on the horizon,  high above the river,  delicately weaving through the mists of our hopes and our expectations,  through the eternal rise and fall of the quiet hush in the whispers of our prayers,  and held aloft by the merest of threads,  between all our thanks, and all our givings,  flies a lone,  and lily-white dove . . .

I am stunned,  by the pure significance of its presence,  for in the darkest throes of my soul’s despair,  I could but only imagine my undeserving eyes would ever again witness so brilliant a portent of promise,  and that my fall from grace would ever keep me adrift upon this vessel of my abandon,  or that the rest of my days would be spent walking its decks alone,  save for the company of misery . . . and as the chronicles of this voyage will surely reveal,  that in the depth and breadth of my erroneous desire,  to seek that which I already possessed,  history will forever regard my folly,  as supreme in the kingdom of fools,  just as fools will forever regard me as king,  and who among them,  had reigned supreme . . .

for I,  was once known as Ever,  from a land,  and a time before Was,  where Love had ruled,  and in this I was schooled,  and for reasons now known,  as Because . . . and in this place,  of such infinite Grace,  I was loved by a woman so fair,  for in her eyes,  dwelled galaxied skies,  and these,  we so tended with care . . . and as our dominion grew,  even the angels knew,  that this Love was destined to last,  and from this thought,  all our blessings were sought,  and from there,  our Light was always cast . . . so down though the Ages,  and from poets to sages,  who wrote of our devotion so grand,  over forest and field,  so abundant was our yield,  for it was sown with no kinder hand . . . and above all this,  flew Eternity’s Kiss,  whose embrace flowed from sea to shining sea,  where even the stars had found,  so much joy in the sound,  when our voices,  as One,  so came to be . . .

until one day,  I was heard to say,  those foolish words fallen from my lips,  when to Always I said,  the very promise of dread,  to a face that would launch ten thousand ships . . . I wish to go,  to find something I know,  that might keep me gone a very long while,  but I suppose,  there must be a Rose,  that grows just as lovely,  as your smile . . . and to my surprise,  came a look from her eyes,  that told me just how foolish men could be,  is there no end she would muse,  to the things that refuse,  to find reason inside their heads,  when off they will ever go,  to where the cold winds blow,  with all their hopes left hanging,  on so frail of threads . . . so this,  is the sum,  of where my journey has come,  to a place so very far from When,  and upon this river I still drift,  when forsaking that gift,  is why I still search,  for Love,  Again . . .

and so,  here I stand,  with my heart filled with sand,  and a spirit so very shorn of its wings,  and of illusions so grand,  and once a Universe in my hand,  and now ever lost,  inside this Voyage,  of Kings . . . and as I lift my weary eyes,  from upon this rail of sighs,  and my hope I so send upon its way,  to the very stars above,  where still waits her love,  these words,  on bended knee,  I pray . . . to the tears,  that lay upon your face,  I shall embrace in sorrow’s name,  for I have ever known the follies of men,  and I have come to bear the blame . . . and be there still,  your compassionate will,  please accept the very depths of my shame,  for I would walk once more,  through Infinity’s door,  just to hear you again whisper,   my name . . .

 

 Epilogue:  The Wings of Grace

 

and the dove,  after circling in long,  lazy arcs high above an endless river of tears,  shed by the very souls who have lost what they never should have left behind,  carries aloft her message,  and rises up through the quiet hush that pours,  like cool water,  across the vast and gloried dominions of Heaven itself,  having flowed through the vales and valleys of what might have been,  and what could be again, for as long as she,  and Always in the name of Hope,  flies eternal . . . and because, 

ZanaDew Falls is not a place,  it is just a simple story,  about a terrible beauty,  called Forgiveness . . .

 

  

Journal Ending:

September 5th,  2011,  4:02pm

 

 I.H.

 

 

 

 

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