Days are chasing free falling days by the tail as restive evenings are spent in solitude. It’s time to move on for too many tears have been plunged into these pages for the time being. A world of unrest has twisted itself upon us like a serpent on a mouse. The necessary epigrams to move you never came together. Every kind of gesture just fell by the wayside. There’s still blood on the walls and too much fury to overcome. A chimney of disgust continues to flow both up the chute and down into the lodge. There’s nothing left to say, nothing left to rehearse, nothing left to cast into the vast ocean of reticence. The lighthouse at the shore has a signal that cannot be seen from this vantage point. On the battlefield, our armies have been slain by the cold, disjointed aftermath of war. Resentment is a high priority. Spleen, above all else, has reigned as the motivating factor. Caustic showers of distrust are hailing down from miles around this hazy location. It seems that this is a dustup with no victory to obtain. This rifle has been buried in the backyard. Rusted bayonets and disused shells have been proven to have no purpose after all. With both arms down, resigned submission to fate has at last occurred. The sentry that appeared to be standing guard by the gate was a mirage. Maybe we’ll meet again somewhere after the flooding subsides or maybe we will just continue to drift downstream like bottomed out soup cans. Either way, the insurance plan has lapsed. There never quite seemed to be one anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment