The children were dressed for the parade, yet they knew not what awaited their joy, what unknown would greet them on their path, things that had the power to dull their hearts.
This rule that breathes gives no answer; in the firmness of the warrior our exposed intolerance stirs our blind procession, our dwindling freedom.
The standing mercenary with the noise in his throat like the gurgle of death bubbling up with the blood of tyrants.
The church bells chime, the rainfall falls, the mountains mount, but the smell of addiction does not fade; human empires, without exception, do.
© 2010 by mark prime