The ink is on its way, as black as the velvet of empty space.
This gives you so much, as its drops shall become as figures on a white expanse that tell stories, for us all it will stand out on the white virgin pages.
There you will mingle with the kings of poetic forms, words formed as a stark blitz against the snow as if you or I had drawn out life in coals on its surface.
There are many things that this ebony wet creature will do for you it may coil in forms not seen before, yet is understood to be the ways of old.
There far out in a shady place, where a path winds its way to a thatched cottage door, the dark eyes of a man will pierce the day for you.
Sending out the thoughts to you of an age we have near forgotten, he smiles and holds out his hand to you in a gesture of understanding, as he cannot stay.
It had been his ways many days before, and life to him was a verse written in old English on heavenly scrolls, that even the Angels pass from one to the other, yet mere mortals still sometimes fail to understand what is written.
We must therefore draw out the coils of that dark wet serpent and make new beginnings, futures that can gladden the hearts and eyes for generations to come.
Walk without touching the place you are, let dreams swirl around your form, the dreams for the children to be, fly in scudding clouds , swim in deep Oceans feel their energy and be alive without living.
Find the peace in a babies cry, feel the transparent tears of the old as they rush to their Winters without fear, that they cry is for those that they leave behind.
Scribe with your quill, all these things, then say thank you to the energy patterns, that have evolved to make you whole, waste not the light as the light that beckons you is far stronger.
The ink is in the inner soul but there it is a beautiful thing as it absorbs all colours the quill is make of a feather from an Angels wing given with the love of all men,
Yours Ian.T and Friends