the pre-nuptials were in place.
This piece of time was behind him now, while its finality , rupturing the serenity of the moment,
parsed itself upon his lips poised , on the brink of some niggardly expression , that sought its home at night , in the tired and failing sight of his creation , begging for a blind man ‘ s fare , on an exchange trip to Galgotha with it’s rotting cross , malingering in the fallow soil of christendom , by the martyrs bones that spoke of only dust , as in that dust to dust affair that every traveller everywhere has had with his reality , when revelations showed , that all was only memory born from a tale spun into time that kept the lie in place.
the pre – nuptials were in place but the nomenclature annoyed him as did the turning of the leaves in autumn when the devastating fire of summer left his body and overturned his frugal history to let him down again into the aggregate of all he was ………….a sparse induldgence that added up to little more than what his peers agreed upon that he was worth.
he slept once more that night within the wreckage of his journey , his bones and body wet with the adhesive wine of blood and sorrow. The dead having evacuated the world that he imagined , flirted with his mind , and thrust their points of view across before the breaking of the dawn that this was all there was , and the story he alone had made ……..and that the author , no longer was remote , or strange , or out there , but rather, logged into his hopes forever , and always had been travelling with him on the road to nowhere .