The bitter settles deep, towards the soul of the flavor, down in the marrow of the tongue. Burnt from smoke and epithets, from the sheer devilry of invective coming forth in sheets. Our souls inked into flesh and face, time always taking its portion off the top, wizened and wrecked and hollowed out. Arriving with a sigh and a change of atmosphere, not much for protagonists, but about as ordered for ghosts. All wired up and state of the art right before the art took a turn, the relics spark and murmur. A crackle somewhere between inside and out. A voice speaking ill tidings softly in the dark.
The unknown road races with your witness, headlights and road signs. Warnings of curve and grade, sundered momentum and the artifacts of law. The sort of remembering that you know all along, waiting somewhere between the words and the say so. The restless periphery and the blinding brace of light. You are there where you were always headed. You ever adherent of your arc.
Mostly it burns away upon reentry. The heartfelt honor and the weight of duty gone as the ascendant returns. The evidence of the evolution like a declarative irrelevance, the latter days of the elder architecture showing their age. The bones grow thither and the code goes awry, teeth relieved of the burden of bone. The smile a relic of the rictus of terror received, the friendly reminder to beware. That open doorway, that pitch black night. Shadows in the windows. A shape waiting in the corner.
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