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Grande et Moi
Just as the distance seems to fade away beyond comprehension, so too do the hours. They creep ever further beyond control and rattle at the joints of bowing minds. Minds at ease, less traveled yet less fearing of the horizon make for sad lamenting at one's darkest dusk of life.

Scramble to the mark atop the mound for your finest vista. Engorge the sites' sweet glistening; teeth marks freshly bit into the soul. Dent the skin. Sinuous rupturing of a yet unbroken spirit, will, heart, mind ... faith. A crushed and bruised fragment of a previous ignorance cleft.

Beyond immutable consternation and ambling disquiet sat the largest thing I ever saw occupy a moment. It fell from somewhere in time, lost to its senseless tracts of wasted gains spread too thin and wide for one glance. All eyes closed, sleep at last to nightmares vague.

The rain came again today. Again it forgot the morbid task I set it in my limpest quarrel with the night, to wash away the pain from the weight of the world, still sat fully upon me. Start condition met. Then a treacle trail of sanctimonious dread, given too much weight.

Why did I trust me? The fort was lent it seems as seams were leant forth wearing streams of saccharine trust and gluey eyed abandon, beyond mirth and sorrow's figment attached, the brandiments of soul destroying enclaves some poor wretched, biting farcical daydreamer met.

It was all there. Then why nothing did I see, having once thought I did? Is it something lost which I now revid? Escritoire, ink and varnish, the unlatched tools of matter-me-not memes that would come for the night; for the might and my mares, the last of her cares.
Copyright © Ben Kross

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