On the fringe the stoic mute's bleached feet give them no response to their prayers. They have been forsaken. On the blank page of their hope they etch new writs. They are disheartened in their vacuum of entropy. When did potential energy decide to negate itself? With a negative charge or ten that caused the incessant epidemic.
One month was one day lost in a blurred nightmare. The logical priests run formulas without solutions. The prophet's prophecies fail one after the other. The bleak world has joined nonexistent dimensions, the world on hundreds of bleeding stitches seems to stretch through a dog filled summer shackled to despair. Yet a creeping mid afternoon shadow across the field suggests sunnier days in the dry dust of an early Indian summer in the union stockyards.
The apache and their fraternal felines are not royalty but commoners. They too are prone to mortality and twist of turn. Analogous caliber is attainable and transcendence is not something of myth. The chosen choose themselves and a cull still nests in plain view but out of reach to all! The dash to that redemption will not be decided until all the pieces have been played. We must learn to suffer better if we want the hapless to weary of punishing us.
