Then they will come around and ask for the hand that falls far from the tree. With no wrinkles nor blemishes. Only bones, webbing and the stark claw of dirt and a life of grime underneath the screaming dialect that exists a sliver of truth along the fingernails.
Scratching at the post, peeling back edges looking for that copper lining. Green and rust and the build up of mistrust as the walls and foundations crumble all around exposing the inner workings. Grand scales to rival the smallest and most insignificant.
Time is never on your side. Time always slides.
Time will not be forever.
Written on Wednesday, 30 January 2008