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The crystal moon is reflecting the golden warmth of the sun
in the chill of a January night, where sirens scream and the wind howls in pain at crimes
against the homeland of every creature, living and unborn, while my mind is yet journeying
beyond the present state of affairs to the valley of wonder; and I wonder about the care
with which one I love is taking to ensure a happy reunion when time and place permit
themselves to be used by us for such a purpose. It isn't at all strange to hear or
tell of things requiring a sympathetic heart and a leaning toward the romantic on shores
of endless memories and wings of careless lust, flying into the face of our fantasies,
living out the parts we've created for ourselves, adding in the detail with the brush of
our passion and the paint of our desire, spilling none, wasting less, putting to full use
our powers as creator of this scene, star of this play. And then, returning to the
present, the scene is over, the book is closed, placed into the library of our
subconscious for future reference. Rick
Deering |
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