The perfect sense of admiration, the wonder of wandering sheep and the inner being that is, my addictive, repenting soul. I am in the action of preserving, destroying and defending. I can declare a proper crowning, but first I must leave the shoes of the jester, the fool of intolerance of his own destruction. The closest, I ever came to defeat, spoke to me, it was rather loud, muted everything around me and expressed that I am no longer in control, I am a peasant’s spiritual beggar focused on the ambiguity of sin and the mind that moves to allow, the damage to occur. The biggest return from the dialogue was my, need to stare back into the dimly lit room and quietly shutter the windows over and over. Belief of these tales as measures of wondrous splendor and inadequacy, in the angels who sing to their prayers each night, us we are the angels on Earth, contradiction, and struggle are our notes and references, next to biblical refuge. This is the confusing part, the side of me, that is ripping at the score of mania, the ballet dancer’s last step before the tendon in her right foot, slides to the bottom to prevent her from moving, finishing her solo. This is the minute factor, of survival, solemnity and trial. I am the last voice in the night and the morning, I always listen, but have begun to remember more than experience. Have you ever felt trapped under yourself? Tell me….