roninvalkyrie

Buried They say your word is pure: untouched rains from the heavens. Untouched by Man. But how can that be so? So much of what they think you say are reckless words that pierce like swords. The tongues of the wise do not cut like this. Surely, The Truth of God lies somewhere underneath the slicing rubble of madness and corruption. I will need a pick-axe to chisel away the hard, sharp pieces of cruel rock, A shovel to move away the dirt of ignorance, A brush to move aside the remaining dust of distraction. The years of unhappy history have accumulated on top of it like layers of soil. Why do they think that the surface is all there

The Last Assignments I feel a rising rush inside of me. A cooling tide like arctic ocean water. What once was an endless list of tasks, is now an empty page. A blank sketch book with clean erasers and freshly sharpened pencils. Some pencils marks may be erased. Some may remain on the page. Some pencils will break. It may be hard to find another. What I may find for a new pencil may either worse than before or better. Some sketches may be ugly and forgotten scrawls forever hidden away in the pages. Others may become masterpieces, proudly displayed on walls. The time of the confining schoolwork, well done with little else to do, is don