When the boy finally looked up...
So much time had elapsed
he could barely grasp his first movements
Was he a pawn or a king?
How many sunrises broken by a night’s lateral movement
Irrational thoughts congruent to rhythm
Language that was always fluid congealed within him
Forming a center of concrete idioms
Unable to be expressed though nevertheless infallible
Stalwarts... like stone castles
Meant to last the millennia
And yet he of flesh and there within lied the dilema.
Chiseled words must be hurled as far...
and for as long as possible.
Regardless of obstacles
The pain must manifest in spoken manifesto set to ancient drum and vibration
Even as we succumb to slumber
Even if inaudible... it’s existence itself shall last the duration and reverberate
channel into physical movements that resonate
We MUST Travel the absurd path even in obscurity
Not for vanity, but to truly be heard.
Observe the minute movements of life and death
Until When At Last We Draw That Final Breath