In ages past, spoken has been the word to the elevation of this world. A beauty in its masterpiece drawn on the edges of a tattered peace claiming its absolution from a flaw or tease.
The memory always shapes itself in the present as a better version of its former peasant. Contouring a dress in gold with swatches of burgundy rims tainted with sullied blood and whims to save the agony from these endless films.
The show continues in its rehearsals, shaping the world in its theatrics, putting on a visage of a reality masked by nothing except its frailty and antics. One that demands a say and claims the day while ignoring the futile pursuit of a shape that contours it accurately, while being completely inaccurate.
The righteous hands befallen in front of the justice beholden, craving a thirst for a life that simply dies in its breath, rest assured that its validated rules render the world sure.
The silence awakens the dead in its reprisal, meeting its head in a call to be a lamb on its knees that drivels in a desperate plea to finally see.
The death reigns in its solitude of pains seeking right from wrong to die in might and song with every day a win claiming a sin to a need feeding the final seed with a death that bares it all for an age that sees the world a word lost in memory of a show handing its silence to a righteous death.
Until the next ❤️ beat ~.~.~
