A wondrous world of simple design
With trees that gently sway in time
To the sounds of rain falling from the sky,
A place that could only live inside the mind.
Leaves bright emerald over bark of gold,
A creak that trickles underneath a road,
Grass reaching up as if to cup one’s toes,
And the sky but dotted with dreams of old.
The road seems to go on and on for miles,
Running so long that the hills look like stiles.
This one crooked creak that moves slow from birth
Whispers a gentle embrace of the earth.
A land so unique that man has long crept,
Raced, searched, dug, hunted, and pecked
To have but a single sprig from a bush
As if to claim namesake in a land such as Cush.
This place, home to children, is meant for the pure.
Mere figment of malady will begin to obscure
The pleasantries caught in the very air
That wisps through your ears and brushes your hair.
As children growing old will soon forget
While building their grand nonsense parapet
Atop walls and pillars of facts refined,
We find ourselves forgetting the truly sublime.

In this moment we blink and find respite
And then force upon our fragile lives
A barricade worthy of Qin design
And in its centrality, we become entwined.
The beauty remains, though we dare not look
Though indigenous to her, we cower as crooks
Who sneak to the corners and steal second glances
And warm our mar within our fowl masses.
We build this wall with our every word.
To call it wisdom would be quite absurd.
Yet, we lay blame to our dignity, lessons, and age
The rationale of defeatism reinforced as our cage.
For fear that we’d tarnish the glory outside
We huddle in darkness and from life we hide.

Which brings us to a simple martyr,
Who walks among the grounds and balters
With man and woman, child and whore
His fingers are barren, yet dipped in each gourd.
He is a man lost from beauty, and proudly deferred.
He steps quite loudly, yet rarely heard.
Stepping so timely as if meant in tune,
Though this particular medley was poorly sewn.

As he steps, he sees a man with drink.
A wine so deep the greatest ship would sink.
The man sits and ponders with unsettling vigor
The past he so desirously sold without candor
As with pencil and parchment in hand
He traces out shadows between the words’ span.
His mind drifts in wafts toward days of old,
To a world that was built before cobbled stones.
While his hands lay on a surface of molten bone,
He questions the wisdom that lie in the tomes.
Ones not written for man to simple peruse.
Ones laced only slightly with trifling proof.
Ones that are burdened only with wispy truths,
And are often quite unquestionably misused.
And upon the pauses of his own mumbled words
He sips ever so slightly to push back at the skewer.

Our fine martyr is shaken by what he sees.
Why this poor fellow is barely upon his knees.
Why if only a gentleman were so inclined
As to let loose his shackles and free his life.
Our martyr comes close to this cask of a man
And sits beside him, hand in hand.
And asks to be regaled with tales of old
And let free the tremors of a fort night of cold.
The old man begins slowly, quietly at first
But speaking out loud shakes him loose from the hearse.
His stories embellish and shower with myth.
And our martyr still sits. Quietly sits.
The old man now standing, poorly at best
His shambles of clothes barely cover his chest.
Our martyr nods patiently and encourages the ruckus
As the old man drinks and speaks of destruction.

And then, it seems a thousand miles away
A vagabond shakes her fists of rage
In an oddly trifle, subdued exchange
As if to say, I shall not continue this way.
A wandering soul to be quite sure,
Her desires as active as the masses of Rore.
And as her heart foments her wrath,
Brazen yet quiet not unlike a giraffe,
The rain begins to lower a calming drape
And she closes her eyes and walks away
From occupation, family, and friends
And has not a care to turn back again.
Her anger long left in the puddles she treads.
Her fingers dancing between the raining strands
Of time frozen in the midst of epiphany
That only she is privy to see.
Her life so rife with mediocre fame,
Was known for her inability to refrain.
Her weightless and unbound spirit
Left her few memorable deeds, without merit.

Our vagabond struts down upon the road.
Her feet strike the earth as an elephant herd.
Not a soul alive could ignore her candor.
Save two men loudly discussing disasters
Of merriment and daylight, of gods and rats
Both joyous, yet enraptured by angry rants.
Our vagabond knows not what way they’ve set
Only that her eyes have yet to be met.
And so she sets her path upon the old man
And abruptly walks into his drunken stance.
He stumbles to the ground like yesterday’s catch.
Our martyr stands without missing a breath
And digs a knife deep into the man’s chest.
He decries the maiden’s honor as his defense.
Then snatches his wine and empties his pockets
And leaves him not but an old, empty tin locket.
Our martyr stands fast and smiles at the vagabond.
He thanks her for time saved, turns and he runs.

The crowd sees this man in his rags now accosted.
Their wit was too slow to see the martyr for plotting
But, their rage grew quickly and sought out a sinner
Their gaze fell upon our vagabond and quivered
With hate and blame and thoughtless designs.
She cried out her case and made clear her intent
But the crowd did not hear her, as the old man bled.
Her beauty without grace did her no favors
The mob saw it’s maleficence and would not waver.
She let loose her feet and gave chase to the martyr.
As vile words and granite hail fell down around her.