THE GATHERING

The gathering of souls has come, and this origin has risen from the depths of my woeful dens, but such vivacity has come down to my lowliness, one that quickens me from the spirits of rain, for I was bound in shackles of darkness. But as I lift my eyes from the valleys of the deprived, it quietly sets in me that you have become this aspect of the rising before the mountain's great gathering, the rugged masses attribute the softest elements of your heart, the rhythm of your soundness, beating softly in the midst of unyielding chasms where such frailty of hearts exceed the rhythms of their soundness. 

Howbeit, you are the illustrious one, the precipice before the grand gathering of souls, how so amiable are the rims of thine inclination that crouch smoothly, so nobly to the valleys of my woe. And so I walk with soft thoughts, and I shall gather myself with the staff of vigor, and walk with my children to ever embrace the day of finale, that I may alas have my finale with life upon the sultry of the rising sun, and sing might I, the very last timbre of me, and sing softly to the moon of sweet ginger.

© Rena Scribe 2015

(originally written in October/2005)