Indignant by J Mac Stone

Hovering over the tattered text, awaiting the next lyric to foment, and lost on the path to Garden of Eden. Making an effort to ignore the hostile drone of the elder who speaks of days with horses. Jealous, laying about in apparent disorder, waiting for their event. Leaves outside the window died wishing for their moment when the wind catches them instead of their neighbour. A ride on the wind cannot be exceeded by the most pleasant days... Chaos is restricted in the minds of those who never lead. Clock moves, yet only as fast as the challenger to the left can wipe the drainage on his sleeve. All that signifies is appetite and assigned times to masticate are often misaligned.

Thankful for the brief reprieve from the sounds of nasal drip and lost in torturous confusion over which day the blackness falls. May there be time enough to follow the sins of our fathers on a rainy Tuesday? Marching across the wasteland to sacred higher ground. Sit along the narrow path that is not chosen. For there is only one path to take and hesitancy, as the heretics proclaim, can lead to hollow loss. Facing the truth is never as easy as hiding. Lying is never as hard as clumsy apprehension.

Approaching the cave that holds the symbol the time in perspective begins to slow. Dancing with our goals does not remind a waltz. Instead we crave a mosh pit to drown the inevitable consequences of our turmoil. Uncertainty fills the vortex where the hatred was fermented. The animosity has abandoned the shell at the time of greatest need. Going forward now. This exercise was pre-determined. There is no will; only results to achieve.

Back and forth roll the days until there can be a fewer doubts and the troubling thoughts reach a thunderhead. The future retreats into utter darkness. Wander home knowing. Pass on dinner, appetite lost. Third story screws watch to see if there is a new concern that can be remedied with a diagnosis and oral ignorance. Observe closely. There is nothing to be corrected within a blank slate. Colour on as you wish only to watch the mimic perform. Is it always hard to watch ourselves in the resolute actions of others or simply our own willingness to gather for sermons from those who cannot elucidate? For progeny that regret is softened with daily liquid sustenance, as if ordered by a medical Hippocratic philanderer.

Back to brick and mortar. Lessons of numbers and lessons of words. All the facts gather steam. The minutia of this existence will result in one indignant burst of light.
From the depths of the assigned cave withdraw your chosen passion. Wish for a fast turnaround. Leave a trail reminiscent of Wounded Knee in an ice sculpture. Do what no man chooses but some are chosen for. When the count is done the masters of our demise shall wail. They will speak of the horror and what was missed. Look around. There are infinite reasons but never honest answers. Each of his own volition will strike a match and hold on till fingers burn. Why our house? Why our institution? Gangrenous rumours will be challenged and regurgitated like the mantra of a psychotic tantric. Listen closely as you pass. Hear one or maybe a multitude that grow at once. Like a choking weed in a stockyard. Never even fit for the chute. You can learn only after the last summer exits. The neighbourhood sentiment burns with a sour aftertaste. So few of the true masters can worship the servant. Left to their own devices the lead cat will eradicate the threats in the pride. This savannah will never feel that harmless again. Many will wonder. How did they become so indignant?