Manuevers against death have brought me on this sacred urgent route through the night of the storm whose persistent rain has gotten everyone into their houses to light fires in hearths for a warmth I feel is insignificant...they come close to each other to talk comfortably after their night's doings are concluded at the occaision of the gripping wind outside

but they all seem poised to topple in their ring around the rosy life of desperate cheating even as we all fall down.

So that I could "be a good sport" they told me to quell whatever despair at the rulings built up inside me. I did this religiously, since I learned it needed focus to erect a placid mind. Only when my brother died did I find out how the habit's hard to kick - the thunder of my grief stumbled and faded to measly rumble in the echoes of the caverns sealed by IT. The memory and perception I had of my brother and his life were gone leaving only evidence of stolen urgency of feeling. I soon noticed that my rage at this inhuman trick could be smothered by IT as well; making me only a quiet passenger on this train to hell - so my rage rose up to defend my rage, and the two of them fought quite well.

I realized the rulings are not the rules of the game whose prize was me. I saw the many layers of struggle in the world surrounding mine - and each layer was ruled by a fool with a tool for a gap in their underling's minds.

The fight was quite bloody and took a large toll on my life - but I always survived. I learned after time to prepare for surprise with a ward to see daggers concealed in the eyes - in fact there was hardly a tool they could use without my soon knowing the guage of the screw. And as it came through, I felt as it stitched its words of imperitive caution into the membrane of the yolk of my soul, which I never quite read but instantly retracted from whenever my wandering wishes saw a memory scar in the possible happiness of being the star in the night of my life

- the symbols burned out like a word so repeated it drops of it's use in the order of language and shouts out abuse in your own voice - a warning for words who would reclaim or refute its ever-expanding regime for quickly executing meanings.

Discouragement whispered about turmoil and myself sinking toward a regression where something beautiful must be

- but the angry word marshalled it's definitions into formation in the name of the faultering will to continue in service of the redeeming value of the chosen definition and directive of the words of adjustment away and gone from the scars and failures forgiven now by the newly discovered and fated weakness that's better left behind to fuel the furthering of the long drudging walk home that may or may not be endless

- and the two merge together

- and nothing is right.

I became only a tube for the cold wind of promises blowing past on my skin and I wretched at the immensity of the impossibility of the loveblood soaking through the air ever allowing my word's neglecting hand to touch it...

My son and daughter laughed and left for a nearly endless time in a world where the words became quite clear.

And I listened to the quivering heart of the stammering world whose insistence and purposes snared my kindness in the web through which I now felt that heart's beat and retreat in the voices competing to brand the fitfully allowed provisions made in times of war and in "cease" held up to the standard of glory for the last stance of soldiers pierced in confusion and dead permanently but forever revered in the national stance

- I stood up and questioned the death in the voice that dictated the words of the wishes of sacrificed sons and plucked in the web of their congress a note of pure pain

- and the face turned and released the whole fury of station and I sat and was patient through all obscurations and trembles since I was the spider released from the web making sure no escape could be had by my prey buzzing on in the heat of the day but he was soon to see that the trap had been set as the voices of anguish arose and drowned out his riposte and I feasted inside on his face as he flushed and composed his revenge and reply and I knew I would die for my knowledge of how to control the sick web

a privilidge given to only the dead.

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