Trying something different in this post. Shifting it from the format of verse to prose while still trying to keep the same . . . rhythm and rhyme (language) of what is written in verse.
The world sat on a string however, the con of life leaves most blind, deaf and dumb. The sign of their ignorance shone like a ring on their finger, worn for all to see so their loyalty to the shadows would never be questioned. There was no mistaking who held the voice to sing, and who stood in the dark robbed of choice. Left to hang with no will and no power to call their own in the fight against those that spin the globe, and tangles that string known to some as fate and to others as just, coincidence.
As you know from my words, there is a bird of beauty and importance that sits in wait at the border of the forest of Vile, Gaia, and something more. She was a look out for Misty Valley, sometimes booked by those that turn the globe, and twist that string. She was a maiden fair, but also her heart was filled with dare and her breath was laced with care. It is with shame that I must proclaim; the dust kicked up by her feet, shows a trail that favors neither that of light or of dark. She is still a player undecided, but that is how fate destines her role for the time being. The side of that she will stay, of where she pays her bill, is to be decided by another, one who holds the final say and no power may rule otherwise.
However; we are not at that point in this tale just yet for we are at the hinge, where if the joint bends the proper door could open. Only if chosen wisely though if not, it would be like folding your hand, leaving questions and possibilities table down and never to be known. We are on the bus with the wheels that go round and round. With a kiss to that torn letter in hope the hiss from the brakes sound, and the wheels stop turning. The Kids foot hits the loose gravel of a road less traveled, his shoes about to embark on a quest to rake the dirt and thrown away stones of a path even less use to traveling steps. From here on out, there was no bus, no car, nor bike to take him the rest of the way, it was now up to what the best of him had to offer. He now stood in the dim light of uncertainty, his smile started to lift and his soul grew brighter, for before him was the bowl known as Misty Valley; where a town really was a gate and not a town at all.