I’ve got a bloody secret for you – I keep hidden in my books… I’ve never written – It’s smeared in all the grime of ages… and men, right or wrong, who took chances to put what they dreamed up in place. Deus vult! Or do you!
Cascarilla chalk, what a waste of embryos – charcoal won’t fix you up. You can’t just imbibe – You’ll need to set fires to expel. Put the mark down! It was never scribed because reading it won’t do anyone any good. W’ere all just a bunch of cooks until our hand is knit around the grip on the other end of the edge that slew GOD in all capitals.
Drought hands, and creviced bows – if not for still wet tongues would crack like thunder. And I bet you’re still full of everything the pages told you to pile into your stomach; dandelion, sweetgrass, thistle, anything else you heard, all have their uses… but they won’t give you the vigor you’re in need of. A wall of spears with your back to a cliff is the gritty state of mind you’ll need to wear like a crown.
What will you do when the tall poppies grow in the field? Higher they seem to reach, blowing this way and the other in order to keep with the winds. Will you bend down; when all others go with the river, will you lift up the stone that will sink you low to the bottom?
“Power is given only to those who dare to lower themselves and pick it up. Only one thing matters, one thing; to be able to dare!”