From my old timeless chair, I sit watching the long fields as the sun sets in
pursuit of the evening moon, the ancient painter brushes shadows on the old
barn and the birds follow their path through the skies.
Dare we hope for a tune on the sad side of the sunset? Is there an exodus to a far
better thing? If tears can talk, then yes.
We are never ready to follow that solitary painter, no matter how brave we think
we are. To follow him to the far reaches of those sunset rays and, release all
memory and identity, into the nail pierced hands of the man of sorrows.
I am at war with the fierce fires of doubt that, this vast universe on universe of
eternities, could rest on something so simple?