The Anchorite

   
   "The Anchorite"
   
   Bobby didn't need the world; nonetheless, the world was nothing without him.  To imbibe the flesh of a demigod merged with True Authority, Papa; plus, that of the energy-flowing laser of love--the Good Ghost, that spirited aspect of the determined dove, seeking, behind the observing raven, so keen in its hope of foretold futurity.  Verily, God chose not swiftly, but wisely.  
   Bobby resided in the Pacific Northwest; specifically, North Portland, also known as the 5th Quadrant, where freedom determined by the King lived highly, that mighty David, slaying giants for mere blasphemy against his God, a true love, an ignited love for all things under that gifted and awesome authority--this is freedom's axiomatic right to rule.  
   But Bobby was no King David.  Who was?  The most read bard; plus, the best fighter without learning the hard way, like incarceration, but infused with meek neck break of an adder influencing the thoughts of men.
   And the Virgin, stepping on the head, adorned and ornamented in electric blue, so divine with aspiration to be included on the shamrock design, when it glowed azure before the healing peace of brilliant green.  Verily, Ireland deserves their freedom and respect.  Do not they have the most brilliant bard of the 20th Century in Joyce, admitting, admitting, admitting, that love is greater than the simplistic illusion of a mind haunted by gregarious girth-laced pea soup?  
   So, Bobby blessed himself, making the sign of the cross over his forehead; next, stumbled out into the streets, emaciated and keen, forged brilliant by the hardcore purity of himself, now.