A moon at eye-level meeting like a stranger. Walk-bys and would-bes, is-nows and what’s-nexts. Stars getting bored, going for an itch. Constellations taking one matter after another into its own burning hands. Moon shines brighter today. Moonshine’s riper in two days. Clunk of a mug, smile of a thug, plans locked and guns loaded.
Sun’s up god-level, heating pikes—a ranger’s. Cavalry crossing, bridges burning, mirages yearning. Simple was the angel’s words as so heard:
“March unto thee, reap what will be”
Storm’s parked over town, holed up ma’am in a wedding gown. Dark clouds square-shaped, raindrops forsake, backdrop beauty for a film beat sturdy. Eastward was the captain’s fanfare; westward was the devil’s grin. Passed around bottle of gin, rest earned but not before next sin.
No clocks yet—hour struck still. Change of fates, closure of a chapter, transitions from life to story. War hero tales, near-miss tails, all that’s lost is found in regales.
Hundreds of years pass. A new look to the grass. Society’s shape resembles its old—the filling has changed from roses to gold. Horns through heritance, halos through penitence—silhouettes were enough to find the judge. Sharper and keener, sharing and caring, a commoner goal born from a great soul:
“Chalk all thine tree, sap ‘fore the spree”
Like clockwork began a new schismatic decree: several-fold faith born of perspective. To each their own see, a new color for the sea. Thunderous division in search of one truth. In all likelihood, turned wreath to noose. As always with stories, they continue for miracle. Unlikelihood be damned, division meets conjoining slam. Lessons learned by chance or by fate, in practice applied the delay of The Gate.