As for him, he’s made, not just from the rough-hewn robes of raw courage, tied with crimson cord of bravado-his Ram’s horn curl around the memories of his Lancelot days, the time he first swam, in water way over his head, when he couldn’t swim-but he did-his broken top, his broken dreams…and the nightmares with no shape or form, from a buried, now forgotten childhood fear…the Christmas when Santa forgot the puppy on his list…the sky rockets, Roman fountains and spit devils he ignited, when he was nine, on Independence Day…the first time he ever saw a horse, and smelled the intoxicating odors of a barn…the way he felt when he first knew how holy a silent night could be, sleeping alone, beneath countless glittering stars that sang to him a remembered melody no one else could hear.
