Stomp . . . Drag

Stomp . . . Drag
Stomp . . . Drag

Each time his black leather boot jingles as it falls hard to the ground, crashing from what his matching jacket bears.  Up and down the sidewalk which parallels a busy road in this city.  Maybe it's unclear but he has a message.

I ride by and comment to my friend that I'm not sure what I think about him.  My friend is sure and he doesn't like it, as if it gives his belief a bad name.  At the time, I am remain unclear.

Stomp . . . Drag
Stomp . . . Drag

He continues to walk, knowing there are detractors, surely thinking about each person in each vehicle whizzing by in the business of life wondering if he's crazy, like one who sits on a corner.  Certainly he believes his stance will be seen and his message accepted, I am less confident than he.

Too many years later, this man is brought to mind as I read about the "greatest man born of woman."  A man who lived in the desert but was so compelling people came to him.  I wonder if he would be accepted by my community, I hope so but I am not as confident as I would like to be.

I leave from this thought knowing it's a fight to be in and not of . . . afraid that I tread this line to closely in attempts to be accepted.  So I am careful to hold truth more closely than cool, battle to be called strange in the world, not accepted, and stand with the confidence that this man did, walking with his cross up and down the road.

Stomp . . . Drag

To be a man is to put truth over cool.

Ordinary Warrior