In a moment I will hear the chimes of a familial porch I've never been, where the sun warms a spot just for me on the lap of a gentle Father. Dig deep, dig far, close the door on all the noise. Pull me to where no one goes. There, Father waits, to pat my head, to hear my call, and loose the cramp which is my heart. Softly, softly, I can't break. Father holds me whole too well, though I often wonder what would spill out if I did, and if my mind would then be free through the true liberty of madness. I am not great. Don't make me so. King my Father may be but a princess I don't want to be. For the greaters come from battlefields and forges wrought with magma with flame, with pain. But I, just I, am nothing so brave in my honey sun-warmed seat, hiding in a dream, a breath, a seam. But... Oh, gentle Father, whose lap holds my beligerent head in the place I've never been, may never be, who holds my peeling seals with tender glue and quiet words, and quiet places... If such a one should ask of me I shall. Not for glory, not for strength, not even for the joy you promise me. But because you loved me and held me. Such a palm upon my head can't help but invite my so-so soul to nuzzle back, basking in a light I scant remember, but must exist. But hush, a moment, I hear the chimes, distant, non-existent, they may be. You have yet to ask of me to raise that royal mantle, the colors of Great, and don about me the dreaded armor of holy steel for a purpose I can't see. For now, Father, warm me, keep me, beneath thine palm, real or imaginary. Pet me, soothe me, fix me up, and I will try hard to believe.