originally posted August 16, 2006
Obviously, every thing that occurs in my life does not get written about or otherwise reported. There are times when emotions and thoughts are laid directly to a posterior rather than penned for posterity. That is not to say that I want some Scribe with a fascination for dissident Poets and whoremongers to read anything 'too just' into my general mien and the way I lived my life. I can be cruel at times. I trust my whim more than I should, but I apologize for little, if anything.
So hello, dear Scribe. I am the Poet Szol of Ar. There is much you do not know about me if this is the only volume in your possession. I suppose I have alluded to the past in the ever-accumulating paragraphs of prose and preamble. I cannot say how this became a travelogue and suddenly segued into monologue, but it will continue to be a repository of thoughts and dreams, praises and scream of the faithful. A poet cum playwright, I do not change so much as evolve. Although there are those of the opinion that change is equivalent to evolution. The scientific test holds true, I think. If one reverts, does one not devolve?
Ever-forward, man of the republic.
Keeper of words,
Turner of phrase,
Reveler of night,
Feaster of days.
March forth on through Saleria
Trod upon the grasses of the Upstart
Repast, imbibe, depart
She is yet the light
Upon my Home Stone
In her arms
I am un-alone
Sunned and grown
Reaching, preaching
To the choir.
I desire
The flames and fire and
Smoke that tears the eye