The breeze brews black as Jason's ewe beats bold and blue.

At first glance - second even - past I
Rushed; brushing you from sight.

But now the mind drifts to nooks and nodules only the most desecrated synapses wake.

Soon I am distracted by the sight that sits before my eyes as they cast themselves left; find

Change. Monochrome shades; which have known each and every blade.

None alone, they condone propensity
Whilst surviving, prone. Unknowing,

Of what is yet to come. For what fun
Will it be to see them run and flee

Foresaking the rest without pause for breath, after all we are what is left

Each new lot an unruly and cumbersome hoard of faked shock and dross

Guised cynically as truth. Perhaps not a surprise to see that their starless faces are to me of more value than you.

Lying deep
Beneath surfaces
Keep Barren
Ground We
Fall. Asleep.

Green shoots
Should sprout.
Not weeds
Of Could-
Lead Doubt

Yet hurtling
We cease
This hope
And relinquish
Such beliefs

Then again
Rising East
Ties which
bind Some
possibility

at least
Hope: that
tremendous beast.
Guiding low
and Exact.

To leave
Wise perhaps
Or water
And sustain
This. Momentary lapse.

Thick and coarse,
They protrude and stray;
conspiring to form a
shadowy shrowd,
to smother the grey

And overwhelming the ashen,
which presents day to-day;
Lucky I suppose,
with such colourless facade
("Derelique" some might say).

I could strive overtly,
To blend and blind -
Yet why Bother?
When we are but
The same. Skewed line

No one will see -
A perfect guise!
Hidden and conceded,
This is
Our strife.

The same shade-smeared smudge has resided,
there for two months now. Each day,
I pass.

I motioned once, suggesting some humanity remains,
Eulogising the Deceased with pleas for its
abdication; never
Again.

To me though, a shift is merely futile
expectation,
that - just for a moment - dead-eyed shirts may diverge;

Resist slicing the crimson ribbon
and instead preside over change.
But not; rather they'll trudge and mumble waiting,
for those relentless fingers to grasp the
Inevitable.

An arbitrary pre-determined self
-inflicted destination.
Is that what led Him here?

The second Thursday '07:
A lawless landscape unfolding, steady at First, but slowing. Crawling to crush.

Those fabric arms devour - uneven,
Engulfing fury, They wrangle and wrap;
As passengers trawl for pearls to muse.

Next, I'm there. A faceless brick-laden
Heathen, absolves wanted sins. My lack
Of sight now a gut-churning punch.

They cry. Each laments as I seeth
And splutter for sustinece. Will cracks;
Strips; Shatters. Breeds detest of the fuss.