Thus Served the Gods

 In the sparse grim spec of winter’s arrival we beheld our northland dry and its feel upon our skin. The hour born to splendor was nothing of unusual ink, a summer’s mask and what remained between; stuttering and staggering to be shelved over time.

So golden was our ominous nature and aimed with staminate candidate as if all in her religion had been washed away by stone , illuminating through the heavens a rampart cast of snow, flowers, ash and trees ripe with olive, sun bound limbs cursing their roots with earth. Neither abiding the hidden wishful suicide. It was our last glance into immunity. A power ruminating backwards. Back into the bleak Parisian alleyways, back into Darwinian forces so damn inescapable and back into the grim awareness of visibility.

The swerving lashes of stone;

No longer to spend our day’s psychosis, No longer to play our odes beneath the sun; slumped from arctic reason. Only wounds dragging through riptide and angles of Venice awaiting the landscape; so desperate to be painted.