One land of tar blood sits at the edge of the sea frozen waiting for the inevitable, for the diamond ice to break. The coming days reek of the inescapable, of the rupture sheltered for long with partial roofs and half truth, of the partition that has long resided in a home, we are not sure of whom.
They say we should have seen it coming. We, the scattered colors, abandoned languages, poor rainbows. We, the robbed and the robbers, children of forced nights, cracking boats, should have seen it coming. But the fabric is not stitched by us. We are not the players of this becoming.
We are just the fences keeping life of a distance dream inside circles bequeathed on us. We are no heroes or villains, not even the pawns of the king leaving, of the king incoming.