Migrations by R. Landers

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Be it with a wither in thine heart, that thou followest the most humble of transgressions, or thine own need to be? Allowing but a taste of ones own fate, against the powers that reside inside those who would seek out against such folly of being? Such folly of a simplest of existences inside such a grander expanse of human nature itself, driven by the craftsmanship of those who would seek to bind all to their way of best thought practices.

Against that which I speak of, is what thou needest be most awares, for inside its billowing curtains which seek to blind those who follow, reside those who wishest most for the days of old. Those being the ones thought of when the sheets become laid upon, and the head seeks out its weariness, thinking the times long since past could have been an easier road to travel.

Yet none are the easiest, and no 'one' seeks to reign, for they all hold their hardships close to the hearts of those residing.

Should one sink to the bottoms, seeking refuge in thine self's demise, or should thy heart lead thy head, into times unfolded? Resting simply beyond ones grasp, these times are of the now, led to by thy choices that one's self may attain.

Choosing solitude in the most unknown of demands, thy wishes most willingly to follow thine hearts desire's to the futures promising ways of proposals, hoping upon the hope untold, that thou has chosen the most wisest of ways.