And By Then Too Late

Damage. So far from that scene. Still frames and frames per second. But both still. And nothing continuous. It can't be. Not with one so unschooled, so reprobate. To retract and there an asp. To hold on to nothing but ash. The spin. The words you never hear him use. No. No, he is good. And it has served him. Happy since the day he was born. Real as the socks on your feet. Solid. But here? Limbering. Lingering. Lurking. Nothing but fear. And so rightly so. I now have something against. To detain? Shameful. But what of that which will not be reformed? No anvil or hammer. No heat in the fire. No bellows. Waiting cold for the solid to flow.

Too often. Too awash. Too false. All knew. ...And now all know. And who cares if all come to know. Therein is not the shame. It is in the pot. That jar of clay. Sullied waters seeped dry. No summer breeze, no winter snow, no spring shine. No autumn chill. Betrayed by the shell. Cracked and calloused and unfit and unclean. A failure in his own right. Complete. Utter. And full. Compounded by the sun and by the stars. Corn husks and cabbage. No not till all is used. All is taken. All is lost. Only then.

No. No sister. I won't be coming home tonight.


I grieve.