The race had been set, but not sought. The winner fared no better than last and so it still seemed a dance that circled plateaus and mountains dry in endless exhaust; until that dance called rain, the rain: a bestowal, and for that bestowal: a seedling. The racers continued, unable to focus on the fruits of their labor. Each carrying a weight held so distant, but always trailing behind.

The seed sat strange. Beneath it, geysers expelled tears which climbed and soaked the clouds. Children prattled unknowing, hidden in crags from within and sparked figments of light that flickered from the opulent haze and shone a love supreme. The light begged the below to offer its hand, its fruit and its design, but of the racers’ ambition, fealty, and covenant: no differentiation could be discerned in a satisfying way.

The worms butt heads and heads, feeling the dewy density of dirt, the refreshing draw of tepid water woven through soil. Cobwebs swayed overhead as leaves jostled from their branches under a darkened sky. Exile found a child accelerated in its constitution. The buzz and calling of a great many swung and sung and reassured most of exile’s exaltant possibility, like growth anew following the burning collapse of an ancient ossuary.

Defanged hounds denied delegation to the fringes and wondered where atonement might lead. Surely the debt of actualizing ideals made sure the surge brought best the swaths of heaven, but now who had the craving and where did they hide it? Beneath scant cloth? Behind a pesky ledger? A puny mandible? Who smelled the haplessness on them and begged for their obfuscation?

Well, rich are the eyes as hunger besets upon them each anew before the daydream slinks