In the darkness before I start to dream, I see it there before me.
What marvellous truths the written word can dispel when when the wealth of the corrupt springs forth to convince all it can of that which is truly right and wrong.
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.
One never expects the fanciful and fantastic to occur anywhere outside of stories. Only in legends and half forgotten memories do Gods ride upon the elements and heroes roam the world. So many places hold a relic, or even a spirit from ages past, it would be hard to believe any claims of authenticity, even if the fruits of those words stared one straight in the face.
Is is the will which separates us. A will, for you, which moves as long grass in the wind, as the flame by a slamming door.