I am ripe and overflowing.
Fragile and well-cared.
I am sorrowful and joyful.
Little and scared.

I am a fearsome angel.
I have no sword.
Yet,
I have a power which comes from stillness
By not moving I am made whole.
I am causing ripples on the fabric of reality with thought patterns tried and true.
These are stable thoughts-common man dreams-ways of perceiving others thru them
but from their own mind non-invasively.

Coming from the place of heart
And I am always conscious consciousness
As a star in the one mind.

I am fettered by chastity's belt.
Told to be chaste.
I am chaste and told to be faithful.
I am faithful.

Yes!

Then the tired statue rose.
Shrugged off the lichen of years.
And gathered its soldiers with gentle, also powerful, arms
Like those of a rock giant
Even the rock giant from the Never Ending Story
Who felt, "These hands...I believed these hands were strong once."
When he could not protect his friends from The Nothing
Which scourged the land
Swallowing everything in its wake with endless devouring undesire, unmaking, uncreating.
I felt the nothing once. More than once. On the journey from here to there.
It was a Doomed feeling. A feeling of being fucked and doomed.
Of having caused the universe to exist and therefore being forced to admit
That I bear the culpability burden of knowing that soon, too soon, it will no longer exist.

My luscious and lovely first fornication dreamy artistic girl,
Carla,
Speaks Portuguese.
I was sixteen.
She was somewhat older.
We drank nice vodka given to her by her mother
From champagne glasses until I was so entirely drunk
I could only remember her riding of me
felt
so
good.

She read me the book, The Never Ending Story, that night before we made love.
And we did.
We did love each other.
Yet didn't recall the session until much later. At least I did. She took it on faith. Wanting as I did for my first time
to be hers.

The book never ends.
And we couldn't finish it.
Caught up in our love play, as we were.

I hope to be given the gift of remembering the never ending story.
But for now, this is fine.

I am contented in knowing I have no sword.
I am a tired traveler.
A minstrel sought by nations.
I am.