Lore, Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Speaking visions.

Surrounded by those who claim to know, I find myself alone.

I speak as the elements use my voice to say the words for those who truly know.

With words I cannot understand I speak.

Yet I understand each word and sound with each and every intimate detail of that which is and was.

The blood of my forefathers courses through my veins, bringing with it visions of life and love and death and all which they had witnessed.

All which they had seen and known to be as truth, and how truth walked hand in hand with the elements about them.

I speak with the voice of the elements with passion, to each and every blank face about me.

I should like them to know as well, so they might hear the meaning behind the unfamiliar words.

But they do not know the meaning the elements would give.

They stutter as if to imitate the words the elements have spoken through me, for they are certain they understand, as it is their standing among those who know not to be as their teacher.

The deaf hear not the words spoken to them.

The blind see not the sights which encompass them.

There are those who are certain they hear and see, but all along it is their ego which speaks the loudest and shows visions of grand things unearned.

The elements choose quietly those who wish to know.

So few would embrace horrors and terrors along with joys, and accept them all as one.

As three paths merge and diverge to govern man in the elements, the blind are those who see one.


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