Fuck you.

That’s all I could muster.
This on a cold July day
Icicles dripping from a seldom-used

Is that what you thought?

No, this is no song of anger,
No hymn to those still singing.

Me? Ha!
No, no.
I sing to those who have no voice,
Those whose rasps and rattles stir
The aging pot.

You think to cause perhaps a whisper?
Silly thing you must be, yet.
I will indulge your fantasy,
Though then you must indulge mine.

I see a vast empire studded,
A cat with stones alight and awry.
Horses and a conqueror, a fury,
A stay, a wait, a light, a death.

The stones mean nothing,
They never did.
You lost. Sorry.

The wheel turns without end. Whether you, or I become its beneficiaries is entirely due to chance. There can be no certainty in this game, you know. The more we believe, the less we have in tow.

~ by Benji on July 17, 2014.

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