Don, the breaking of the wearied way.
Harboring the insipid resentment, the knight knows not the beast it fights.
Dose not know light from day.
Dose not know, the end of his plights.
The order is fleeting .
Disorder waxes and wanes.
Like frightened, sheep fleeing.
It gives its many pains.
The peace would be wisdom.
Then would come love.
Accuracy and Tranquility's precision.
as from above.
At times wisdom don't come.
So, I guess one can only do ones best.
To crawl, before the walk, before the run.
Then Zest.
©redic
R