Take a night and watch it take a few more in return. Dusk to dawn and that's the business of the race, of the game with no name and no players bearing faces distinguishable from the anguish and the longing wish. Run with it and watch from the far side of the smoking bush. Where they all find the small red berries that leaves the far end ruminating with smoke of its own.
Counts of heads are useless in the fluctuation of nature and an abhorrent existence marked by futility. Watch out for one another and watch as one and another fall by the womping wasp of dust as the sudden fall takes them to ground. Scratch dust them there and only there as the stains trail lines flowing freely into the pools of hardening reds.
Fall over in the remark, fall over and out from the spark. Cut to the scene, fade to black and watch the middle over tones of silence wave in washes of the green. Deep green like none before ever seen.
All in all and there is nothing but the end of it all. For as the longing lasts forever, the haunting lasts as long. Too long for they of the weak legs, of the weak arms and of weak necks. Endless pace is not the level to pay kind to, a constant marathon in the dark of shining plumes of smoke the very pains of society.
"Run on!" they will shout and berate from behind. From behind they will shout in the hidden scenes. No doubt to cower in fear if the days ever walk into the reflection of turn.
Written on Wednesday, 18 July 2007