If I were a squire,
Upon the tails of olden days,
If I were a journalist,
Enthralled in all the city and its thrust,
If I were a humble monk,
Thinking on the mysteries of all:

I'd have a different page to mark,
My words would veer through countries far,
I'd have a plot to chase through streets of glass,
Yet here I sit at the end of whimsy,
I'd see the world remains as bright as always was,
I have my words to write.

A cross-legged perch,
The seating position with a timer,
Counting down in fleshy clicks,
Time!!!
A foot falls half asleep.

Alas, farewell you trusty stead and friend,
How far we walked, how far we send,
Our merry little presence beyond,
Past stately trees and murky ponds,
To lands that bustle in the smoke filled air -
Oh, it stopped tingling.

In the downpour,
I'm sitting and waiting,
Contemplative,
Stages to stages,
And I rest in your places.

In the furious rain and the roaring metal,
In the blaring music,
And the subtle whisper of people,
You are still there Lord,
Unleashed from the temple.

In transcendent, unhurried purpose,
You walk and you wrestle,
With weak men and strong men,
For broken is the perfect vessel,
So that I may get a surplus of grace and tussle,

Tussle with truth,
Tussle with wisdom,
Tussle with those around me in love,
That they may know you too,
Maybe place a little stone in their shoe.