Butcher

If the minute hand gave the hour the finger, would your tears dry slower or the pain rip deeper than ever, the Crucifixion of a million seconds and more, spears tossed at mind’s doors. Chariot spikes grinding memory like Ben Hurr without the wits to triumph closure and sores of reminiscence appears. If persistence were the key to reconstruction, would your world be shamelessly perfect or nothing like the former prowess, the building blocks of Caesar’s palace unmatched in the foundation, like the eventual lost of Atlantis on the bottom of a careless ocean, mortar dissolved in questions. If revolutions and wars lacked casualties, would your beliefs of crowned defeat falter or imaginations of victory be tainted with heartless separations, like Genghis Kahn marching through his massive collection, of family, of trust, of men and of sons, prowling for a resolution. If doomsday arrived at our front gates, would your days have sufficed or claim it to be all wasted, like a hurt locker lost amid the clouds without the treasure x. If in hindsight everything beams with clarity, would your bravery seem silly like a representation of a youthful history. If is good and if is bad and it eats at your soul and swallowing whole. If it does not sob as it regurgitate, welcome to unfathomable reality. The hour never slows without a fight and you must confess it to be right.