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Kevin G Hare

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The Sentinel

I glance at him from time to time as he watches me. His glare never falters from his station, his guards close beside to ensure the diligence of my imagination. I see his features in their true essence, dark and wrinkled, aged with wisdom; he is timeless and immortal and a guardian of all my ideas. If I were to think of his life, he would exist in some ancient forest, he would stand tall, the king of his domain and his vigil over his many subjects relentless through eyes that never close. Though his stare is a stern expression, I am glad he is there and I enjoy his company in the space I call my own. It is a world I have created for myself and his status remains influential over the others I keep in company.

When I am not there he sleeps and waits for my desire to create and I wake him with a spark to ignite his intelligence. He is more than happy to pass this on to me through the rekindled life shining in his intense, green eyes. Such a world he must live in, born of fantasy so willing to share, I only need to listen to the ideas he dreams of and releases in a sweet essence that fills the room with productivity. I am then aware he has seen it all already and he dictates the events back to me so I may write them down in many memorials to his existence. They are tributes that which I write, passages of another life he holds over me as those I yearn to live myself.

He was a gift to me, one that I cherish greatly. He sits on my desk with his dispassionate stare as I work. He is my friend, my inspiration, my sentinel.