Every bitter bite brakes bone to bark as flesh of oak bends to winds from mountains stoke.

Another river frees a sliver and sinks path for bloody vessel to travel new stream. To make sense of what it could mean, to be free. In water and yet trapped in current, never knowing they are the same hand holding the same chain. Yet you give one love and the other blame.

You would drown your dog if it kept your prized hog afloat on log. As home is taken and foundations are shaken, you must eat. You must give up your bliss for your carnal cravings of gluttonous kiss.

Swine in bed muddied things you'd said. Lost in tangled sheets, it all wants to leave you. But you grasp at mattress as storm takes walls to flight and all is cast in endings blinding light.

The storm will pass but you won't outlast. You will die in wind and water. With pork in mouth the whole of the farm will meet slaughter. There is no save from the mess you made. But you are the mountain. You birthed the wind. You hold all the responsibility for what nature gave.

Nay but you live.

You are proverb. You are Job. You are game of Satan and God. The pieces are set along with their bet and your loss is lessen. So suffer, and pray, and beg, and win so that others may learn how best to sin.


© Artemis' Arrow