"What laid such ice in our veins?
For those who chose to live in the wastes little remains,
Vagabond, thief, the outlaw scents prey,
Sounds the silence......
A mortal wound betrayed atop the brickwork splashed deep crimson like a tide;
"Is it just the spring?"
A breath of wind, a touch and blown dust roars into the face of the deep but fails once unsuspended, underfoot....
Only a man will be reborn,
Romulus and Remus in the fasces' state, caressed by shadow;
"As a factor of Maat the desert is cold at night"
"Ours will be red one day"
("Yes ours will be red!")
We shall go west as if our futures lie still in mourning,
Prey, the wind, none shall find us,
One will decides, not quick or slow just absent,
Companionable corpse on the shoreline the sea stretches and reaches to reclaim (better in the arms of Mother Mari than the famine)
"Habeas Corpus Christi!"
Prima facie there is no evidence that our dust will endure any longer than yours.
Poison seeps through the cracks unseen, grasping at the visage to feed, not infecting non-flesh, too raw, too "fester"...." G.Hales