Tucked somewhere inside a vaulted cliff— a series of rooms and rambles spread across ‘half world’s end’ and scribes of universe gather there to read the recorded messages of blood sigh and sky crossed turbulences. These mystics of word and those wizards of type—scroll the scopes magnificently magnified into thoughts and render unto the whiners of wars or the bits and bytes of peace—parcels both of truth and of folly. And! Dreams are again reality.

Makers win as last arrow falls and blood spill seeps into the sweeps of steppes won or lost and again taken from the takers to the makers. Gods bless the politicians of lies and fancy word-pour hanging just outside ear-rage or the reign of toothless gambol and corruption-squeak. Truth chance—changes the worlds of distant gambles and card tricks money from table setting to pocket—unearned coin clinking into purses of capital greed and hunger. The Voices always hear…Learn to just listen…

Universal scribblers of notions or potions written with oceans of ink spilled across a trillion motions and paper stain—caution stained along with those killers of hopeful faith realized—discarded—regarded and launched along with those words of ‘will-power-hour’ and less than…just before light set or mourning day. These rhythm of makers scan desert sands as their riders write the composition of windy-whirls and storms once known and called the race of human pace and taste descended from sky high to night fall upon deserted cities of time and future speak.

Robed white and sun bronzed figures ride the ‘Makers’ across a sand sea of grain and pain to rein in many gathered portions of willing folk unable to find or flourish or self-believe their own worth-selves and unwillingly shelve dreams to reach their stars of dream touch and love reach—found and then—lost. So! Face the rising sun as warmth covers face and scatters across chests-to-waists-to-legs-to-feet firmly planted against sands wet with desert rain and early cold.

Touch hands of two to many and then as joined jointly across the windless floor of land now and yet-to-be become the once shelved selves of Spirit walk and magic talk…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Wicked Game’ by Emika