If man were meant to fly, he would have been born with wings. However, if love was meant to make man feel as if he is flying and nothing could ever hold him down, does that give the heart of man wings with which he can accomplish such ability?

Worry is like a dead-weight, coiled like a poised and ready to strike cobra, and when relief washes over this cobra, it withers; hissing, spitting, and melting into the earth as the sun dries it up.

And who knew that beneath the dishelved rags and tattered lion pelt that you adorn yourself with, when pulled back reveals the most innocent lamb of them all?