“Why?”

He poured another glass. It was only water. Somehow it seemed fair that both had an equal glass of which. Both times they drank and felt the ice touch their lips. With each shock of cold came a lipid flame that overcame their senses. The sun would shine, but not on them. It seemed like time stood still. As though the light suddenly bent through shadow and collapsed in an ethereal chamber that halt the glow of the stars between them. As soon as one spoke, the single noise would give shade to the forbidden. No more shall light cast these thoughts to burn. With every sip came a new thought. As though the water had something different in it. Nor diseased. Nor poison. Nor drug. Nor timid.

But more questions asked are less answers raised. For so bitter are the stares; a bitter tournament awaits. These men were hollow. They stared out through the light that permeated through window and concrete. This city they knew suddenly became the very silhouette of their unbecoming nature. Nor birds would fly without seeing them. In each gasp of air they breathed came new fulfillment sought. For both they and other men know their complex ways. To create is thus to destroy.

The very poison shall be this water: the one substance they drink with no taste, but to taste their inner selves. Though sweeter lips shall ripen its taste.

And the moon shall gush through solar wind and cast itself in Earth’s shadow. And he shall rise and cast himself to corner swept in little light he gazed. Their thoughts in lieu of past and hope fallen; no more is taught ere less is fought. In war and peace their actions known. In one side is war, another for peace. Another for ally; theirs the enemy of theirs.

Though suited both and booted, but barbarians would dress better. So fewer masks are crafted is less than they. And cards would play with joker raised. With each reverse their mask is shadow; nor Anonymous can credit their deceit with ill-got thought. Nor men of past shall be boys of future. Their offspring the sight of woe. Their posterity the appeal of ignorance. And their ancestors the apparel of loss.

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Humanity, Prose, Works
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