I haven’t spoken in days. Peace avoided. My bed is well-made. Opportunity is no longer calling and voracity has driven off all those who might have stayed.  On my back I have waited… Slithered, skulked and hesitated. Stricken, sickly and Weighted down. Forgive me for this, I know it’s belated. I can’t leave. Not for the good of all. I have too many questions… Directions…Misconceptions. Everything is concentrated. So call to answer. The longing and the cancer. A plague smeared upon a dramatic backdrop that only you could have painted.

Oh I couldn’t care less how you have faded. Cowardice hides when it could be making changes. You are not writing. You’re splashing colour on open pages. Call to answer. Longing is cancer. So bravely hang your white flag in the window while the fire in your heart still rages.

The search for truth could have any one of a thousand endings… A fool’s pursuit that is forever bending… Fragile panic held hostage by a light descending… An assumption of tranquillity in the closing stages or the ripple and crawl of terror of your own pulse as it finally races…

But why bother?

The rider will always approach…To fatten his harvest … Furnish his coach. If one shred of humanity remains. Flair your nostrils and shake your chains. Pull the fiend from his steed and ravage its body with your dreams. Feed what is left to the flames and thank god and all his treasured hell that you are “saved”.