None Of Us Are A Finished Article
Unbreakable yet broken, unshakable yet shaken, father to many yet father of none; fire is in his eyes, thunder in his voice, one man army winning battles without soiling his mantle, greenery is parched ground after him, feared by men and held in high esteem by the gods, but he’s such a mighty man — such as can be disheartened by one so physically inferior, by such a one so infinitesimally significant in comparison to his driving Force, he gave up on life itself for threat’s sake. He is Elias of Tishbe.
Flawless yet flawed, fearless yet a chicken, intrepid yet timid, hardy yet fragile. He’s made of stone, his heart hewn from the rockiest of all; ardent in his resolve, his eyes blaring like new torches, courage is in his wake, but he’s such a rock — such as can be blown away, shaken as a reed moved back and forth by the mildest of flows. He is Petros, son of Jonas.
Strong yet puny, lawyer yet in chains, mighty yet disdained, admirable yet detestable. He’s a god one might say, pestilence fellow always at war, would die over and again for what he believed; deserted family and friends for so much a mirage, but he’s such a stonewall — such as can be stoned and left for dead, such a one weakened by his own self, one often battered by the undead in him; a man of woes, hated by most. He is Paul, the tentmaker.
The strongest of all is only indeed strongest, the fairest of all is only indeed fairest, the wittiest of all is only indeed wittiest, the richest of all is only indeed richest; when they cease to be human.
None of us are a finished article, not yet.
