Those things crawl in our emptiness. Daring us to cry. We've met face to face with these things. Stared them down, and awoke tear caked. Admitting. Little in this world is worth writing in ink.
Pencil whipped.
Ink enters the forest, emerging from the sliver of light a chased interloper. Spilling and smudging. Strategic, but futile. Martyr, attempting finality on modest recyclables.
Pencil whipped.
Begging the eruption to tide us far off. Begging the eruption to erode entrails, that rage may stream easily. Ink spews, dodging erasers.
Pencil whipped.
Some things never need saying. These are the things ink is manufactured for. Made and stocked, immortal on the scrolls of never-says.
When some things are said, they manifest. Spoken language wields more power than brainwashing generations. Spoken language, when triggered precise, ignites forces. Forces consume facts and speculation, then spit out corrections.
What can become, becomes what is meant to be.
The path we are on is diminished into cracks. Paved is the road we are fated for. Cracks spot flavor along the paving - homage to our efforts to half-truth fate. We continue the path, stepping on or over, but always in a glimpse of what could have been.
Fate does not want us to forget. Not forgetting forges appreciation.
Eventually, fate is crowned destiny.
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