In the pale light of the evening moon the mind can wander. It leads a man into swampy places where he plays with the thorns he finds on folded roses, teasing himself with the feel of the pinprick against his heart and soul. He marvels in the slow trickle of blood that washes down over his chest, bathing  him in the pain and silence he has grown so accustomed to.

This must end.

As the wolves howl in the nearby underbrush the man’s mind finds chaos. The heart, that usually reticent partner in the journey of this life ridicules its own beat that is so well-intentioned. Just to love, to be loved, openly without the barbed-wire fences his mind creates against it would be…

He can’t finish the sentence. Tears prevent the words from forming, and stain the very ground he once cherished as a place of promise and of hope. Head bowed and hands folded he falls to his knees, legs weakened in the moment. “Please,” he whispers to the night, “let this chalice pass by. I do not wish to taste its bitterness, nor swallow its poison. Let the swill fall to the ground, lest it take me from my heaven. Let those who like this taste take all they want, and leave me with nothing from which to drink.”

A prayer which rises within him a returning growl that silences the beasts of the brush and brushes the cup aside. The pillar within his soul hardens to a purpose for which he is accustomed, the sanctuary of his heart will not be surrendered on this night. His great sword swings with great intention, slicing through the tender parts he’s left exposed and restoring order in the chaos. Silenced will be the mind made again a slave to its Master. It will surrender itself to his purpose, a man steeled against the rages of a mind left to wander.

“Love everyone, but never sell your sword.” ~Paulo Coelho

The Sun crests beyond the distant East, and the noise of night subsides into the sounds of morning.  Fatigued from the lesson, he sits patiently upon a stone, looking out at the line separating night from day. He feels newfound strength course through his body, but he wonders if it is really strength he feels. Perhaps the real power was in his own surrender. Perhaps the real strength was in the battle, not the victory. Perhaps his willingness to feel the flower’s thorn puncture his soul was where he found his greatest triumph.

A long sigh escapes him. Maybe one day he’ll return to that place and there will be no need to fight. Perhaps someday the wolves will embrace him as they do their howling fears in the night. Maybe, if he is lucky, the night and day will unite and there will be no need for him to be cast out for his own survival. Maybe his voice will become the one heard, and not the one silenced.

He will always be willing to go back there. He is not afraid even if he seeks shelter from that place. Some places capture the imagination of poetic hearts in a way in which they can never leave despite the hazards and beasts that live there. Some places are worth the risk to travel to, even if his sword must be released in some moments.

He will wait for the invite, and in turn just journey on his way.