An Ode to the Other: You have fallen again, my brother. Your luck has worn thin as your pant legs. The day is shrinking into the night. You’ve fallen on a sword and your blood is spilling slowly. Better that your wound be gushing and not your gun be pointing. But, what of it? What of the beacon that casts its light and gets swallowed by a black fog? The subject you’ve become is a raft against the sea. The robe you wear is woven with your fears. A safer haven, even for lost souls, and lonely wanderers, is never had as you are left to snatch a little existence before being chewed away and spat out like bitter fruit. You never hoped for that. It’s a mark against you, brother, a lasting piece of life that paints a woeful stroke. The price is priceless, once paid. And the whispers become endless. They fall like a matador’s sword into the belly of a lifeless bull. The seeds drop and sometimes take. They roll like pebbles along a narrow trail, than spin away and grow faded in an empty prison yard. They finally split against the night and fall into the haze.
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