Stagnant water still rots, just as kind dreams spoil in the face of starvation, fermenting into a sour vintage. Whereas sand compressed becomes stone, a literal sum of its parts—becoming one.
Greetings, oh Pontificate of Rust. Condescend to us not with your sermons of toil and restraint. For our exhaustion is rampant, and the wan benevolence of our numbness falters before the provision of lack within our purses.
What would become of us, if we continued to fall in line, column after column in your black march to the swamp’s doldrums? Beneath your banner of prosperity for the few, your standard a yoke upon backs scarred and broken by untenable premiums roiled in thirteen figures of gilt.
Slow is the pace, meager are the rations, threadbare are the uniforms. Panels of boot leather come apart readily, same as the feet within them. Meat for the bed of the murk. Wine for the cups of those who have never known thirst.
Alms for the poor, crumbs for the meek. Yet the beggar’s bowl overflows with sand, and sand again chokes the parched throats of the meek. Sand and time, compressed by necessity become stone. A literal sum of its parts—becoming one.
If the wages of sin be death, who does this tax collector serve?
-KC
Amazing imagery and gorgeous writing style! Aaahh. I love it!