I know a place where nobody goes, nobody else but me;
It's not a wall, or even that tall. And nobody goes there but me.
It's not that secret, this special place, for my absent friends know where;
But none come close, it's much to slow. Nobody else but me.
It's not a place without a past, and many have been before me;
But one must read and heed their words. And nobody listens but me.
Their path is mine with fires still warm, for I use them all the time;
But we never talk, it would serve no end. Since words have destroyed our friends.
It's a quiet place, where deeds are king, and words the morning dew;
That soften glare, and heal the stare. For wars are not for me.
My friends mean well with passions true, but secrets repressed will rule;
Ignoring past while denying present leaves little chance for future.
They seek a God, but I'm ill suited to lead them. No stomach for façade.
So I watch them crown their frequent Gods. For no one goes there but them.
Good it is there be no gold or sparkling jewel, in this simple place of mine;
Nor easy road, or fertile land to hoe. That would soon cause the fatal blow.
Those who come here know who they are, often names well known;
With peer disgust for how much they have, yet chose to squander it here.
No one had choice of womb or place for the Tribe that determined our path.
A fortunate few drew Pragmatic
and many more Opportunity,
while the yoke fell on the Duty Tribe
But we few were a Tribe by ourselves, given the gift to see, and seeing all they
say we see nothing;
So our Dreamy Tribe, with clear vision of broken images,
by fate had to make this place their home.
We know the secret, our small little Tribe, with covered lips of moss and sorrow;
Emily and Robert, and "Give me Liberty or Give me Death": our silent epithet in time.