Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
It's intrepidity, is resignation to a certain fact. But it's haunting, too. A countenance negated, when for once a blank stare lives as the mind in that moment, with all blood let and costly service rendered. There is no roadmap for spells concluding enduring sagas, and the intrepid know that. I'll admire from afar and wonder on the strength of those survivors as they quarter amid the spent minefield. They might say there is no strength in tattered ends, all life is a process of will and action. They might say that standing still in the face of the unmitigated is an admission of human frailty. Respectively, I say: Let me admire. Let me reflect. Stillness is strength especially in the hour of the unmitigated.
Under the weight of the prolonged rests the peaceful disintegration of a name. What is your hope? It is feeling, oozing past reality to where experience suffers spasmodic fits. It is the long and sullen attaining critical mass. (The belief that) with a push from the other side, the anguish disperses and comes relief. Maybe this is where you find it. In the remembering. In the soothing. To mean, to suffer -- sister soldiers of internal discourse. To verily believe the unbelievable.
That I may remember the man and the moment
during sunny-side soon-eves, we stood thoughtful, wondering: are there waders in the offing? with blasted hollow tethers beneath us sounding depths. and rickety planks, the boundless energy fusing one in to the other, over and above a customary step. "I've a mind to dive!" and set self-sinking in the sludge to wrest from this paralytic a darkened grip fathoms below the surface plain. Cheapened talk then, hearty to me now, but arresting a bold effort. Here lies a preface to a promise: reclamation of that tether. Time was time did not matter; only the attempt, to attempt anything was a living proof. With dynamism, accoutrements, and slipping awkwardly beneath the still; all weight shifting, cask like, then pushing and probing a wasteland. Mine eyes were weak there. That trait so roundly prized owed nothing from the deep and so, received nothing just. Cutting through surface slop, wrapped in film, a grin resting familiarly with the ferocity of youthful error. Failure? But a moment. Success as well, and a bond formed fit and deep worked its way inside.
This is a funny little piece I worked up after I heard an interesting story about the first use of forensic entomology — yes, using insects to solve a crime.
In the smallest nooks live the slickest crooks, using sharpest wares to strike at maidens fair. Bet that evil hounds plumb the open grounds as day turns to night to exercise their might. So in a village green far from active scenes, came a man who stood beside a newly minted bride. The man, filled with temper, did her body half dismember and escape like a breeze before the break of eve. But the foulest must admit that sharper minds do acquit the cause of justice fast and pursue until their last. As county men took over, staunch as that county boulder, and lined up all existent observing each with insistence. "Drop your wares friend and let us not pretend that the vile and refuting will halt me in my duty." So all spilt their wares upon the township square. They did look for a savior and divine, merciful favor. Ah, twas not god on the brain for county copper plain, but the nature of a buzz around a man of woolen fuzz. As copper proceeded toward he soon spotted his reward. It seems flies cannot resist where fresh blood doth persist. That resounding buzz upon the knife told a tale that must be told: the slick and vile murder of a wife who never shall grow old.