To tackle a circumspect job, a person of valor or worth to the community, say an elder statesman sort with a butchered past, dealing in sacred oils and strip mall demolitions, the last little sandwich off the silver plate at the wake eater, a taciturn, maneuvered, polished and kingly man, will, invariably, recurve the manifest ride time to circumvent the inevitable rancor for his gallant stride in destiny’s wake. A mere nod defines his panorama.
But, justice is poetic. It travels the little known roads of torture’s hypnotic sideshow. There is comfort in the chalice of red wine spilled for the ages, and the soul house feeds on aspiration and rebukes inspiration. But, It is the blood on the snow that marks the path of the soulless beggar’s contemptuous foray into the diametric canyon of hearsay platitudes and angular dispositions, only to find the escarpment too steep to even contemplate escape. – Sinz