He seemed as a man of vision.
He settled in to the tenderness.
The tenderness was the fragility of reality.
The tension was the tenderness of time.
He sought and he found the answers.
He knocked and the door was opened.
He was weak so he had great strength.
Meek and modest, charismatic and honest.
He knew the evils of hate.
Yet he was loved..
Precisely by those he thought would never love him..
Sometimes a door weakly open is the most widely open door.
Musings of a Picture Frame Conversationalist. 