Throw Off the Worlds That Rest Upon Your Frame

Throw off the worlds that rest upon your frame
And shrug the atlas from your failing mind.
Weights, the Captives chained and weary, fully lame
As earthen are the links, the thoughts, that bind.
My house, its sleeping couches, is no longer home.
The street, its once sweet sounds, I hear no more.
I cease to read the words of ancient tome,
A book of hidden wisdom and dusty lore.
Who would not chase the scent of "I" in breeze
And walk descending path's identities,
For golden blood flows out, it slows and seize
A breath for freedom’s hopes and memories.
But bonds are safe and safety fast confines.
The Air, the Earth know meter and the rhymes.

Update On My Life

Nothing has changed. Seriously.

Update on my other vicarious lives:

The all knowing computer whipped my genetic code from its database. I no longer exist and miss myself already.

In a blizzard, a callous economic decision has placed my various troll identities into catatonic states. Revival any time soon is unlikely.

The Me inside my head turned into Sonic the hedgehog during a nap I took. I ran though an arching hall, much like the space station in 2001: A Space Oddyssey. However, the hall was filled with people meandering around like a sporting event was going on. I was dodging everyone really well. Then I woke up.

And there you have it. And entirely irrelevant post.

Dirt Roads

The boy wasn't very bright. The villagers always laughed at him when he chased chickens all the while calling them pettycoats. He refused to swim in still water because breaking mirrors brought bad luck. They laughed. When ornate carriagies bounced their way though town, the boy ran along side doing cartwheels in the mud. The villagers only laughed if the carriage didn't stop.

But one did stop. The villagers formed a semi-circle around the door in an effort to properly greet the dignitary who had graciously stopped. They also attempted to hide the boy, smothering him with arms and torsos. The carraige door opened and out came a lavously dressed man. One long red feather flourished from his hat and white frills encased his jewel encrusted hands. The dirt face villagers in aprons and jerkins lowered their heads in deference, and, in doing so thought, "How polished this man's shoes are!"

Only one head remained upright. The boy looked at the man and grinned. It was a silly grin fit for moments like grinning at grunting pigs, caught fish, or pretty girls behind their backs. It was not a grin fit for royalty.

The villagers, who's eyes remained firmly on those shining shoes, were startled to hear a sword unsheathed. Afraid of feeling the sword sheathed in something so unpleasent as their bodies, the villagers huddled lower. "His shoes have little spikes!"

The boy kept on grinning. The man frowned. Usually a show of violence effectively restored a sense of propriety. And thus he spoke.

"Your name, boy," the man's frills shook as he spoke. Even so, the villagers couldn't take their eyes off the man's cleats.

"Einstein, sir!" the boy's grin grew brighter. The villagers never spoke to him. Who was this marvelous man?

"And what's your name, sir?"

"Sir Isaac Newton."

"What a fabulous name, sir! And what do you do? Shoot pheasants? Chase skirts?" the boy inquired with all the impertinence born in a stable.

Apparently the boy's grin and frank questions won the Sir Isaac Newton over. "Why, I am a great swordsman. The arc my weapon makes is...perfect."

"A swordsman, sir? I should have though you to be a scientist...Who would ever take to being skewered by a Newton? No no. You must give up weapons and count apples."

Sir Isaac Newton laughted. "A little kindness never hurt anybody," he thought as he flipped his fine sword over and presented it to the boy. "Besides, I have pleny of others."

The boy took the sword and gasped, "It's sharp!"

The villagers were right. He wasn't very bright.