It’s time to speak with truth and with grace.

No more to waste—our Dignity’s at stake.

This ride is driven, dear, by pride’s own face:

A beast that feeds on fear we dare not wake.

The fool, once rotted, a wisdomless sage,

Returned again to play this tired part.

She bears the sword, and he, the wand of mage—

Their rage restrained, the I now torn apart.

But she, all fire, can burn what she would save.

And he, all water, cools but risks the deep.

’Tis Passion here, who dives to make her brave—

While Glory’s blaze stirs fire from water’s sleep.

And Glory—grief unveiled—now takes her place.

Her sorrow rises from compassion pressed.

No holy grail can soothe her need for pace.

She speaks to cut, not comfort, or impress.

Her blade, long denied, severs sacred lies.

Its weight now real, no longer wrapped in lore.

She strikes the mold where silent pain still hides—

Too tight, too clean, too carved in shame before.

When fire is masked, it flares in brittle grace;

When water hides, it floods the self with shame.

And Dainty Douche, the mask upon his face,

Commands, then crumbles, speaking Glory’s name.

He stumbles home, disgusted by his shame—

The wounds he bore, the masks he dared to wear.

While Passion dreams of Glory, speaks her name,

And dies again in longing and despair.

Yet Glory, sword in hand, stands firm in flame—

Her grief and care no longer held at bay.

While Passion yields, through wonder, not through blame—

Their truths exchanged, their shame now washed away.

She sees his wounds and grants him grace anew,

Enchanting wand with truth and light and name.

And he, in turn, brings polish to her view—

Her blade shines brighter, kindled a new flame.

The power in the curiosity of his truth unveils,

And power in the compassion of her truth sustains.

Though they yield pain's might when the other fails,

Their light restores Dignity, once bound in chains.

The beast in grief, who fed with greed sees—

No more at war, in body and mind, we stay.

Two spirits joined, their dignity is peace:

Two in the One—the Sage in The ART of PLAY. 

I am the fire that did not burn past well done.

I am the wave that learned to rise, not drown.

We Pivot & Learn to Appreciate the Self as one.

Active Recovery Techniques, care for the frown.

Patience for the paradox in their fruits, incoming.

Attention paid, valuing focus permits free growing.

Care for the balance between the done and becoming.

Time is all one needs and, in that, our truths showing.

A PACT Made To Grow Sage From Fool's Rot

Call him WaveCool, Passion's love of Glory, he never forgot.

Her, EmberWise, Glory's love of Passion, she would twice rot.

Or call me by the name that leaves your mouth in awe.

With Dignity's might, Celeste Eel Webb