Is it any better to think you will not fall so far because of your limitations, that because you aren't worth a second glance the gods will just let you slide? Why should the mighty suffer so when you can take spill after spill? Why should any slight be overlooked by such a touchy and heavy-handed heaven? Every success, every bright leap of love, every thrilling dream come true all owned by these jealous reckless ghosts. Why believe that you can ever be good enough when their disappointments will tear all the meat from your bones? The gods do not tell us but are contend to harvest, all our bounty already remiss.
The stars come out as imitations, the light that shine so weathered and true. I can taste the smoke of each conversation, the silken coil rising from the candle just snuffed out. The language of lamentation birthed from the bitter on the tongue. Expunged chances, murdered hopes. The fires alight in the crushed of broken bones. The fissures set down until the fevers release. We bow and scrape as way of explanation. A prowess to redress any given worth to pay this debt in blood. I lean against the cold worn down timbers, ice seeding splinters in my every touch.
This is not the only story. These words were never meant to be set just right. Only to seethe from these cracks and sadness, bitter remainders and ancient complaints. The grievous injury set against the splinters of fearful smiles, teeth another set of leavings, the way this life has at you. Knowing that your sins are never punished enough to free you. This press of omnipotent lips against blank brows, this hum of blood and plunder. To hope to live without respite for every slip and misgiving. The foolish rise above the fray as if the stars would worry.