Page 49 - NS 2024

sings a ballad for those bred dead, lead- weight mates still abate the war we’ve lost.
Too late.
Now tossed aside we must abide a rule of thumb drummed into minds. Pathetic, let us lust for that which we've already had and never again will. Still the mold was filled,
a build established with the blemishes that
a maker blamed. Untamed pets sit at the
feet of a master who failed to rein them in
from sin, begging for the scraps from an insurmountable table that they're able to
clear with one horrible bound. Yet they've been given comfort in the prison of their purpose,
for what could be lost when they've been found? Even if they wind up below the weight of chains restraining them from pain or gain
it's all the same. A picture frame that smothers all who breathe and all who don't.
A moat, one that distances the living from those who lived.
A sieve, catching only those who stand steadily on one side or the other.