I am the one you follow. Locked into my wispy wake we trail through the shallow mists. I am that arrow launched before you breathed. I do not tow you.
See the rosy lavenders. See the deepest darkest bluest green. Faintly. Listen. Prayer air whispering like turtles perched on high dry ground.
You do not need to follow me. You have tone on one wingtip and color on the other.
William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903
OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.