My Dearest Dahlia Llama,
I’ve yet to figure you out. I’ve pondered not yet long enough as to your insight into vision and wisdom. To speak liken you is almost blasphemous. Your knowledge has scope and circumstance yet you glow in forgiveness. Your warnings are with speed and cause and your compassion as delivered is enlightening.
I’ve yet to sit in the same time as your hem as it sweeps and wipes the floor. I’ve yet to sway in the same wind as your aura. Somehow life will permit an encounter and I shall meet you on that hill.
I am a scribe, with words written before I could form them. With wisdom engaged with solace and soft innuendoes for perhaps and maybes.
Not all can name their calling. There are those who just believe. You and I are as weightless as the echoes of our thoughts and limitless to how much substance we can bleed.
Oh but to travel with you on the intelligent journey and put away my dreams till you call.