There is an ideal, much like imperia but stronger
There is a song, much like life but sweeter
Then there are the souls more like blades than I am, and with them carry my dream.

There are the people of imperia but wiser
There are the warriors of the soul and more
But when they both reside in one of us, we are whole

After them are cities so vast, they hold the riches
After them are the trees that bare the golden fruit
Within them holds the true dream, of which many have sought

For us we are daggers, hold to a burning flame, and in them we see the same
For us we are the seekers, of true glory and fame

In the end there is only me, a one of bone and flesh. For the true seekers are them who ask, but do not carry a name

   I dream many times of a glory everlasting, a tale to light a thousands eyes in wonder. The truth is simpler than that, or so I wonder? But how do we tell what is it in life’s passion that drives me to hold such a dream and carry it like a banner in to a battle of the world. I think it would be because it is mine, my world thru my eyes seen as I wish.  

   If I am to seek the wisdom do I need to look for the wise men, or women as it might be? Or do I simply read and adopt the claims of others to be my own. Ignorance in many maters breeds the purest of philosophies, this might be because most thought out philosophies are never pure after going though such vigorous phases of understanding and discussion. How does one become wise I wonder? How does one step closer to feel the burn of the eternal touch of wisdom?  

   If I can walk a thousand miles to see a wise individual, and when reaching this individual ask them to teach me in the ways of the wise. What would they say? 

A better question would be. What would you say?