subterfuge and shadow, echo play of the vast unknown. we are on death row.
it is because we are on death row, leveling brown, and rock, and green. leveling with consonants of oblivion and decay. some distance from metallic flame, established at either terminus of the horizon to indicate a passage of time and space through the narrow defiles of sublime ether struggling to remember whose was the echo that ricocheted. collapsed in a heat of fierce dissonance the body sought the stone’s cool refuge beneath the blasted convent at road’s end were ears enough to deceive the sleeper’s dream.
what is it? a sacred thread through the arcane eye, perhaps. immobile in body is fantastic atmosphere, heavy in haze of distraction. heeding shadow and light, play the intent to understand the memory at the root of each’s own name. we watch the sun for its rhetorical beam- you are the living dead.
is it because we are on death row, and no longer comprehend among the grasses that grow between the fingers’ shadows how long it is to the very next day, how little we have traversed all these years leaning over into the abyss to see in eternity’s opaque mirror what semblances we are to the recent dead.