From Ashes Rise The time of a pigeon... Memory gone like messenger pigeon; stoned to the point of blurry vision. I'm not dead that's a given but quite frankly oblivious. I don't see the trees across my walls or the sky that will never fall unless I'm a chicken with anxiety and I cut my own head off. Memory is somewhere in the near fields just yonder from over here. I can taste it and even hear it but I cant seem to receive it. &**Oh memory Mary where did you take me? Into a realm of pure sensuality, a place of overt sexuality, Oh memory Mary just let me inhale you.**& Exasperated with or without your touch, listen Jane, I got your sister Jolene tatted next to my heart. Oh memory where did you lead me this time... Onto a tangent of none but our knowing. At least you have the memory to complete a sentence. Aye, you and your sending of repentance for my open irresponsibility. Messages were sent to every crook and cranny, every brook and valley of Dementar where lay my home. I could see the beauty that lie in the horizon and the horrors from just words of pigeons sent across the world. After a few messages memory started to take grasp and I finally saw my tower at last. Centuries had passed and I stood in writing and fleeting sending and receiving. I was not invulnerable to human decay unlike my flock of youth. So with painstaking relent and doubt of accept I sent myself looking for the sun, and the moon in which the mortals lay their heads to sleep not long after every noon. I had never been out of my watchtower and have only heard stories in little bits and yet here I was with an ability to find the memory I've forever striven to hit. But more pressing matters were at hand, I needed the word to live. And it wasn't long before I was asked the same question that was given to me... I had a Lad ask me the other day what was the best way to get along with the masses. I couldn't help but look at him with wonder because the same thoughts I would ponder, so I told him. Build up your own crew, nest and nurture the soft, don't under estimate their capacity for freedom. When time comes, let them fly, troubles or grieving sorrow, build the base you stand on and lie. To protect, be who you are in times of masquerades, dance around topics only fun among romance and charades. Making the fire burn for as long as you can, playing games with each-other and a hearty fan. But now we come to a world of nuclear threat where a simple quarrel ends with not just one to the chest. It's a whole nation bombing to bloody oblivion as the technology we write on was so freely given. Evolution versus creation is like a fight for the throne but if you look at history, it's very old. The scientific were once MAD in time of religion and the religious are now MAD in time of science mission. He asked "Well none of that sounds interesting to me and I wanna be true. Can I be recommended anything from you?". I said "Spirituality in this time of great debate seems like a fine choice."."If anyone asks just call it reliance." The lad's face tortured with questions, I could sense it, so before he could speak I replenished. "Let your senses show you the way but don't adhere to their trickery, watch out for phonies and fakes." "The jester will make jokes and don't be afraid to laugh but don't be scared to let them croak. For with every joke lies a bit of truth and every truth a bit of joke." I replied in stoke. So now go my pigeon; do what you must to get back to my watchtower in single piece and enjoy the show. From Pigeon post to post musicians echo their sentiments across atmosphere to atmosphere and yonder from here smoke signals be raised for an unknown sake. The many follow just like their politicians the ego, complexions of subtle differences made to expansions from hope. At times you can't tell a call for help from a trope. So the artists sit in their cuddled warmth receiving meaning from creation and the vicarious deem existence with empathetic expression. While the messenger pigeon fly's above us all relaying stories for us to uncover in the dark. Oh, and my memory, was put into a vase, a glass urn where a gust of wind would tip over every day just a grain of my legacy. I could sense it and I could feel it, my mind slipping away ever so slowly every day so I vouched for a better way atop this watchtower of grey. Capturing the perfect word to the outside might seem so absurd. From singing to preaching, research and debating to be heard. Picking poignant berries make me feel like a bird. A symbol of just about anything my mind will conjure. Potent to the unnerved and looking for wonder. The word to me is as the bird to the birdwatcher. A word-watcher on a watchtower of golden ivory, peaking out just above the canopy of vocabulary. Letters of a feather flock together, the winged phoenix soared... To leave this rich tower of lone and loon I bore To catch the essence of the bird I swore. Vowed and vouched I poured the rest of my blood into the urn of my memory, shedding my human blood for yours this was to become my legacy. Aye, The perfect word is a gem to come by far more precious than any pearl. A weapon far greater than the sharpest of sharpest sword in quarrel. A fire burning hotter than the spark of boy or girl. Yes, the word is far more. The Winged Phoenix Soar