Truth be told, my head is a grey mist of ambiguity. The snow clouds outside are an ironic twin to the fog clouds betwixt my ears. My ability to focus is short, and my attention brief.
The laughter of my daughters an invigorating boon, and the solace of gentle music a flowing boon. But the effort to pull myself from the mire and toward the goal saps what reserves of strength I have, and sows discord back into the melody of the sun’s light.7Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwHVzAlDzOo
I am but a single creature crawling in the mob toward’s Death’s keep; some advance swiftly, seeking the lie of shelter within. Others rail and fight against the gravitous pull toward their fate. Still others, blind, heed the siren’s call and stagger unknowing toward the end. copyright protection3ＰＥＮＡＮＡQOqgkPSF6Q
It is not the end of my time I fear, but to leave these fields of beauty, sun, and music. I know in my mind it is but a barren waste in comparison to the glade that awaits beyond the reach of Death’s Keep, but I must pass it first. More, there are simple wonders here that too many ignore and forget. They value the paper that burns over the jewel-like due that evaporates, but can never be truly destroyed.copyright protection3ＰＥＮＡＮＡbPjMfDyiBI
O why is this life valued so strong? Because it is all most know, and the future beyond the Keep unknown — a terrifying mystery. But is the beyond so bleak and void? No, it is full; of what, depends on the soul’s state. A soul’s state infinite-fold, be it the decaying flame of ego and sins, or the blazing light of selfless purity.copyright protection3ＰＥＮＡＮＡvL2Sp3YtLs
This world knows to well its wrything state and abhorres reminders of it’s fetid state. It wishes to be told elsewise, that it is not the putrid cesspool of self, greed, pride, and lust; the blood of the dead cries out to be told it yet lives, that it’s decay and decadence is natural and acceptable. The festering and diseased cry out in agony, but do not want the cure; only to hear their own miserable complaints.copyright protection3ＰＥＮＡＮＡrBhRSCHKiO
A torrent flows, pulling inexorably to its end: a sea of death and pain, where all that’s septic and decayed is churned and burned. What little is gold or gem is sifted out and cleansed of dross.copyright protection3ＰＥＮＡＮＡBtDVfTzNcans220.127.116.11da2