9:09 a.m. - 2007-09-08
Purpose
His prose fell upon her.... by chance
Like a firefly, navigating through the darkness of a warm Iowa field.
Flickering, ever flickering as a cover up to his prey.
He made his way to her.
This light, though dim, was not just for her...
but for his survival.
And yet with each whisper and nod,
the well that was once vacant and void,
now blindly poured forth, the drink of Purpose.
Ever real and so very true, it labored to fill its cup to the brim.
And as quickly as the water rose....
the fonts and scribe trickled to those who were not whole,
and they took from the cup, knowing that Purpose had finally found itself.
With no regard to conscience, no truth or ethical dignity, they drank from it, with glee.
And with this knowledge,
Purpose asked....Why must you travel? Why must you do this?
For the fields that you fly to have no nectar.
Only skeletons of empty values.
My brim is full and it is yours and plentiful. Why do you choose them?
She wonders if the voice she hears whispering in the wind is really real
Or just emptiness speaking in tongues.
And as she falls into the peace of the midnight sky
The echoes that float above her,
Penetrating her soul and her very gracious space,
Soothing her ever so quietly....
Whispering....
He will be back.
