Fourth touch.
10.11.23 – Overbly
Trouble bubbles up from overpowered phobias. We’re floating in the flight, worried about the lack of fight, furrowed brows, burrowed crowds, heaps seeking a fleet-footed retreat. Life’s taken by robbery, a sloppy flaw in the felonious featurette. There’s no reset, just a group of grossly growing grievances taking advantage of min-maxing a taxing treaty. We could be seen greeting those great guns; no bent knees, no deep leans, no free speech to entreat a release. Voices were muted by the booming hollows, choices disputed by the looming shadows. No bad news, just bad omens. We couldn’t predict the bloodletting but we let the brood set the limits. It was a blemish from some, a death sentence for others. No sense in smothering the flames of revolution with the concerns of survivorship, we’d revive the suffering with a second sending of those lead missions. They were already soaked in red iron, ready to be fired again upon the unsteady soldiers who had to pretend to have a deeper purpose. Their service was poisoned by that poised position over a pleading populace. Their jurisdiction didn’t extend in both directions, but they looked down their noses like they’d know the difference. This wasn’t a picket fence, just picketing defendants seeking a sense of justice from the peacekeepers. The seekers had to cease their siege, seize the displeasing verdict of releasing the vice on the necessary necks. We were used to shields appealing the sentence with the same, a surety on the scales of blind statues, utilizing statutes to keep cinching their grip tighter. Our throats were already closed, airways constricted from choking back tears, shouting at our fears, sneaking restricted breaths, speaking with heaving chest. That arrest was mere jest, just a pressed test for the best of those still oppressed.
-VGB-