Pages of sweat

 The pages of my sweat are written in the sanctuary of whatever cost me effort. These liquid pages crawl up walls not down, they promise future and shirk the responsibilities of the past. They speak of magical events which shall never past. For this sweat is a page written in the universe with a pen of passion, floating, lost. It likens the dead things to the joys of life. It makes for a stage with strange bedfellows from whom one may never escape. It is a pantomime for hell, and the stranger for it is the pain. It alters the husk between us and the world. It thickens the dusk between us and our loyalty.

We all deserve to know what happened when our hearts scream NO!!! with eyes and mouth agape.

They have done it once more. They have taken the last thing we hold dear.