Dragging both heels as the legs fight against the grain, exertion to exhaustion lets out a whimpering fart. Smearing the odour of faith from the mouth of the rear and the fungus of fear turns out a meager bag of paper. A carrier holding onto the last remnants of toe nails ditched high into the lob of the camp fire.
Awe is out but for the respect of knowing the difference between the sleeping, the comatose and the gradually dying. Where the line crosses starts with the beat of the heart, softer and softer to the point of no return.
Fighting temptations sweeten the deal of a transparent mode of the soul, capturing an essence that shall know no remorse and no surrender. Here then lies the face, centimetres into the surface of suffocating air. Comfort is a slumber over the course of contortion.
Written on Wednesday, 21 March 2007