So tragic how the body flaps in the wind.
Stretched along the mast,
made a tool of direction,
the gang who holds the helm wills reaction.
A foul front blows through the corridors of the sanctum,
hallways now marred by irrevocable verse and violation.
grip the walls tightly.
Bet plywood against a hammer’s strike
and the result is another blow to the temple,
a shatter of past ordinary,
a reversal of variable.
Tragic now how it lies in snapped sinew
declared self-inflicted by the glove of the master
for an attempt to arrest confidence,
array it in monuments,
swept clean off the mantle in a careless shove.
Dissected for replacement.
Biology learns to face a new measure
until the tempo loses its satisfaction in inevitable decline.
The ordinary is past,
a change in the wind,
and the body is left to hang low.
The body is hung far.
The body hangs low.
( ❤ Mitch)