wholeheartedly-yours

She rumbles ahead in high heels well-cared a woman behind three names. She lands her feet with layers petals of wilderness in her breath with all the points and power yet stay layers without harm Her charm is concealed in dark fur with a taste of wind Yet her laughter brings forth energy of much more that can hardly be carved in dead old stones Wise foxes dance in that smile as she dreams, and creates moons, bright brooks as her eyes lead up on barren rifts toward those skies and the one she knows of. After the day she sews herself a Cloak of Stars.       In her fur of three tails she may offer her paws if you just wish if y

"Every man has a voice And in it, he has a story." So speaks the man with dried eyes, from behind the fireplace, his voice clinging to its walls. In wrinkles deep enough for light to cave in time takes heed, resonates. His story is more than a voice the voice more than mere words. It echoes, casts, reforms scenes of lands lost, of lands fallen of hopes shattered and won. Of dusty streets walked too long to know the blessing of anything beyond. It's of bright cries, vows and pleas and of beds embracing the sleepwalkers. Stories - they are not just words nor voice, for stories are the eyes that see, the pen that draws lines on cheap paper bou

Would it be New Year then Father would read me tales from the wooden world achieve words the size of the room grown from broad shoulders of Atlas Mighty Warriors Father would paint them on walls every year Would it be New Year he would pour their schemes in my ears then cast them beside the bedroom doors in new blue tint for nights to come and in mornings they would shant happy huntings and lots of treasures they would always share some Father had them found, every year. this year - holding brush in my hand I shape in Sinopia would it bring Old Years? Warlords of the Atlas? but Indians and Romans close lipped no treasures hid behind the win