Mastery is a porcess that,

while unnerving as the storm-scented breath

of a Western wind,

holds us to a promise:

that we might become our angels and

guard our own hearts into their beating.

Because drums don't change their rhythm

into the night

like each is an ending to the next song.

And words don't change their meaning

into the truth

like each is a prelude to the next beauty.

Everything IS and while I live,

I am and I am not.

And all the time

time is ticking.

Slowly I'm slipping into a summer that's

always brighter,

always follows our dimmest winter.

Because all that changes are the eyes

with which we behold ourselves as a beholder,

which sees

and is never seen.