The rambling men who rambles on about the things he thinks he knows. He rambles his thoughts about future scenarios and past manuscripts that he has read. The rambling men knows it all, he has seen it all, he can make it all. In his own world he rambles with his thoughts. Rambling until his rambles are caught.
Wishing that his rambles are what the hands can touch, what he could be, ramble on about who he thought was he. He who wants his own reality on the vast plain building shelters on his way. Rambling so he could not hear the whispers of the morning star. Gone in the wind where the rambler is king. Only the king of rambling men’s mind, his own mind, where he can create in nothingness.
Dreams are given to share a second thought but rambling men keeps on rambling until found what he sought. Not the thing of his reality, created by the rambling men. The shelters cannot withstand the storm when build in anxiety, build with desire.
The rambling men pauses, stepping out of the ring. To see before him the answers that the silence bring. Drawing a line on the map of where he had followed – he can see – that he is exactly where he needs be. With all the marbles on the table in the light day, even then a rambling men continues his way.
But do love the rambling men, rambling on following his plan. rambling the most beautiful stories. Most creative telling others the rambles of what he saw. What others didn’t see or believe becomes a ramble of dust in the snow.
Now listen carefully Rambling men; You can’t be always with your head in the sky. Where romances are written and castles are build. Open your eyes and see that it’s all possible when the ramble stops.
When you’re outside the ring only looking at where the imaginary fight is fought. There is no win or lose only to listen to the silent whispers of your thought.
Stepping back and view from the eagle eye over the vast plain that is yours to walk.
Grow fields of green in the dusty sand and hold the flower in your hand. See past the mountain, settle for a moment, listen…. I just, I’m just little old me, separate strange from fiction. The spectator of the rotating carnival below.
Let the ramble settle like algae on the rocks and take on the current, let yourself flow, sliding down the gentle stream.
Gaze upon yourself as you gaze upon the stars.
All the answers are already there.
No need to struggle or panic moving wildly with your arms.
Trough the tunnel there is light at end,
the deep cave that you’ve explored with cheap copied flashlights.
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Worried that the light will give in,
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true darkness has to be explored for the treasure within.
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Calm and soft, a feather touching the cheek.
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Kissing you like a balmy summer evening.