the Sentry

Halt! Who goes there?

Tis I!

I who?

I who wishes to pass!

Identify yourself.

Cart pusher bearing a load of dung for the king!

Where do you hail from?

Afar.

Fresh or dried dung?

Fresh if you'll let me pass!

Here here! Formalities first. What is the source of the dung?

Animal anus'

I suppose you trade demands a humor. I have not that luxory. SOURCE!

Straw?

Please!

The farmers field ... God?

FINE! Just pass. (shee! This new trade agreement would end in war if I did my job)

the Guard

Mother! Come see!

There, the guard sleeps! He wakes only to stand off those that come to relieve him!

See how enemies stroll about in great fanfare! Dare not wake him lest he smite you with foggy eyes for the King has blinded him yet his blade is still sharp.

Look closer mother. He is chained to his post. The enemy goes about his business while fools and knaves wake and taunt him from safe distance. His office is become a mere gesture for them that still desire him and though he remains loyal to the King he is trusted by no one. See how he smites the good with the bad as the enemy pauses to laugh!

Mother what has happened? The king says all is well and the Lords prosper and we fools have bread and none are afraid yet I fear.

Let us go home Mother and pray all is well. For surely the king is wise and we fools and I wrong to alarm you. Let us go about our needs.

and the symphony almost went to hell

In slow deliberate motion a hand is raised and the 'voice of harmonious creation echoes an invisible world'. Brief glimpses of explicit beauty blend into detailed account as momentum rushes forward promising to fill the multitude of voids. Deep within, a heartbeat of authority gives way to an air of glorious delight and all is magnified through the vibration of stability.

A trickle of humor weaves a path along melodic wits of wisdom even as distant thunders of approval approach gently embracing complements from the most peaceful of chimes. Divine melody now swoops down and dances them all into harmony.

The very boundaries of joy fall away howbeit the revelation fails to even suggest 'what ear hath not heard.' Vanity assures that God himself will lend voice as surely we have returned to the garden in triumph.

Yet this most perfect flattery challenges the redeemer and has not prevented the tinniest of angels from stumbling as she pushes at the gate, the flowing chorus unable to help as her cries for Salvation are blended into the movement lest all be lost.

Even so, compassion descends as rhythmic authority rises to fill the void, stumbling over independent voices of surety locked in unison. Then... a silence! The smallest moment of pause becomes an eternity even as momentum crushes it asunder.

... A new hand now raised. Still deliberate yet somehow glorifying the base cries of the littlest angel.