The Wax Conspiracy

Gates of the cemetery on Tuesday

On Wednesday they gather round and run the walk. Everybody, everywhere and nobody going nowhere. There's a destination ahead, but no lights to lead the path. Trailblazing is for the blind.

On Thursday they take a breath as the wind sweeps in to blind the course. Harsh conditions, sturdy skin and only the weak of will will return quick to base. Gather up the leather and hide, time to face reality of the pathetic.

On Friday they discover that there is no base. No home to return to and the only way now is forward. Anywhere but here and into the abyss that comes to call itself tomorrow.

On Saturday they blackout. Five times no less and three of which double four six times along the hour. Maths is not a strong suit of any one with ashen fingers.

On Sunday thunder cracks with the fury of squeezed pomegranates.

On Monday the exhaustion of it all sets in.

On Tuesday, the few stand at the gates as the water rains down in the acid foam from the hose.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 21 February 2007

The Wax Conspiracy

Recently by Ethan Switch