Recourse

Recourse The old man bends his knees- to the graveyard of speech. His barren stretched arms raise up. Orates the last of his unpronounced plea, for a piece of sky, for a grip of dust. Unresolved. Like that of a master and his beast unwilling to pull the bondage of labour and grin. The latter's breath of unspelled words reveals a stealth of cracked soil, a labyrinth of deep and shallow wounds- of the earth. Touch- me-not grows and blooms and suckles from these breasts of hardened inaudible numbness. The quiet morning dew, splinters over the barrow a thousand bits, a handful of stain. Gone is the deafening first flight of light, salvages, salvages- a gentle sigh, the slightest of touch, from an old and cunning man, to the silhoutte of scorched earth; an impasse between the obvious and the pale.