Sunlight braids rained onto the dusty folds of our parking-lot-like schemes,  'cross the gaping leaps between our sentenced deaths with the occasional intervals of blindness; lighting the path torrents for black light on black, and the little hopes, still held back.
Pocket poles and bullet collars decorate the walkways to the stockyard, where we piled our words and promises before; we stood bare and helpless to the passing winds that swept the misty passages empty, through the urban woods of vanity and fair.
Still the overtures sound light carried on the sealed whispers of the distant dream; that we would live! And portions of our existence rest down the wasted years, on the rocky crust pavements of a river. Floating streams of living things that pass down into oblivion, with their faces cold, and impotent smiles alike.
Perhaps the fading wonders of the breeze one midnight would sweep me away too; perhaps it will take me on to you.
But this that extends down through the rot and the veil of beasts, in to light the flares of a broken heart... It was not you! It was something else, something awfully lovely; it was totally something new!
A father's dream set into the breed of a pointless purpose also set into the wilderness and into the vain colours of a feint folly for greed; as the vacant corpses pose the prose for fortune bring, and for the songs we sing.
Beatitude in the sense of a crime for the sake of a lesser scream; a voice through the void that echoes against the street lights shaping the crossroads to hell; the tolling bell! The little left, gone and strew.

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2012