A long time ago, as most tales would be, something totally different came to see, if tales of God might truly be.

There was no discussion nor suggestions otherwise. The only question was, ‘what if there was no surprise?’ I, being the one, could only surmise, that life here/there was living a disguise. So, would I could, be and see, so far from home. That once was me, now should feel, alive alone.

The wheel, each turn round, the world of stuff, right is real but not found, the journeys tough. When first we met, now aged you are, then was I in stage thus far. Reflections, like ripples from stones, look alike, yet each alone, travels into night.

Strange play, the other waits, tomorrow’s day, a future wake. Counts them all, in twos or threes. Groups the children like willow trees. Just because, purpose spoiled, the other way, lies work toiled. How some may, mystery follows. Just one way, in history hollows.

Fate might know, what dreams can fathom, but self arose to seam in fashion, the road unfold.

We back to back, or face to face, hold on the wheel, this human race. Surrounds this world, reality space, with souls so dark, that not light escapes. We are not seen nor head by all, our screams of horror, that lovers make, in fields of wonder, while heaven quakes.

Yet to be, this mass be honored, set one free, hell be conquered. The dread disease, come hope and promise, falls though veils of dreams unto rocks of thomas. None can touch tomorrow, yet all reach, dragging yesterday’s corpse of hope and promise.

It is, then you, who know the way, hold the key, might God be swayed. How we are is how we prayed. Deliver us, this day, for one an other, as we spin round the wheel called life. Ten years in, 9 years out, just apart. Are letters of love just for one heart?