The Intermission In Duty: Love Finds No Destiny

• What is the heart that cannot love? The love destined to fate, which is fearful of end? The end is the mystery of the inclination of submission in the chamber of integrity, and the impeccable glory of maturing and finding defeat in the call of duty. The duty of leadership is taken from the comprehension of the heart, excluding grateful mentality of the mind.

The embrace of passion whom was released from the dungeons of farewell, whence the hereon came to defeat. However, like Austin, Joan and Elizabeth the Great, the hereon places her majesty in the dungeon once again. The freedom of chance was taken before history foretold the progress of the battle of ole, and the victory of rain is upon the soldiers in the desert. The mirage is upon the last ones of Moses, whom only eat the sand.

A difference is not of virtue, integrity or adversity, since consequential religiosity and race are two very different triumphant gifts of fatal-previous gifts to plan an alternative rendezvous in the journey. Tangible feats are not of honor, when the heart admonishes the sensitivity, and the clarity brings joy. The joy to duty is to serve the many. While, the few in concentration are given no relief, one is left to wonder to whom is invited to tea and whom will deny the invitation. Whom will use moral good judgment to create a disposition of myth.

Myth never is given, created or inspired, since the laugh of sensibility results not to over take bigoted pride. The prejudice comes nine fold. And of course the beast is the writer of tragedy and not of comedy or romance. The karma of will is taken back to walk by the river banks, until I may darling; drown in the sorrow of political and emotional torment. The sacrifice of adversity and integrity is respected for subtle fortitude in the production of the intermission, not found in part one or second, or four. The bizarre peculiarity of OZ greets the ‘folk’ of Rosewood, when I from Appalachian am possessed by He from the integrated city of Fire and Jazz.

Allah and Jesus are profits, but how they compromise, we beckon no growth. The positivity of my heart is dedicated in the repository of the Creator’s Plan. Love knows no boundaries in the degradation of faithfulness. The irony of chance, the connection is there, but time tis not. I exit left, my heart still filled.

I am taken, moreover am not sold, coping in agony, I will forever grow. ‘Peace Be Still,” and love thy plan. Fever is in my breast, although my feet fly to Camelot once more my lovely confidante. The courtship sings, nevertheless, my love tis not. The survey suggests, create life as a commitment to self in a world of fools, whom sees no tragedy in committing to duty. Rather, than the lovelier, not have both.

I no better Barbie, Ken left you long ago. The continuation of rage, I must not show. The snow will melt, and I shall smell Spring. Groovy Sister you are, “Every Woman,” and ye must now stand, fall and sail upon the glory on your own destiny. Likewise the stupid classics are the risks delightfully, always the faith to not have tried at all. Furthermore, prospects are certain, “Maybe Bridgette, I am just slightly overlooked.”