2-14-93 Lo the day.

Can't deny it, here it is.

I find myself dreading the pages.  My mind is on scribblings unimportant and barren of worth.  Trite pieces of questionable substance that give no more meaning to this world than a thimble on the wind.  Like the cranes before us, we too look to the shaded shore.  But what awaits within gives us glance no more.

    Blanket of soft, fine dreams,
    Faded all yet for stitch and seams,
    Covering all that shelter beneath,
    Hears to whom my days bequeath,
    That heartened stone, that bonnie ray,
    Trickled from out the flower that lay,
    aside the tracks far stretched and gone,
    Tracing the thatched feet which upon
    a savage doth walk, and shuffle with breadth,
    Reminds one of soft fine dreams one might sheddth,
               in all.

His heart way rayed outward in gold and tiny silver slivers, cascading off the jeweled hillside, scattering the birds, once alone in solace, now alight in glory.  Behind the figure, far in the distance, a small hovel appears, dark but for one exposed window from which shined a light unchallenged, until this once wayward follower stepped to the head, and drove such visions before him, like