Fatigue fallen on empty soles, walking it seeks what it has but often sought before, the boundless plight of our physicality at length. Severed by vows of continuity disrupted, the concordance of fate, mangled upon our seats. Send thee, if not to myself, the flickering forms of finality's discourse. The lighted raptures of patience, pardoned and pestilent, pronouncing non-vocal voices of silent discourse. We are but safe, here, in shadowed realms of figurative folly, fancying solidarity in symbols unjustified, jest not the remnants of unkept hope.

Collision inevitable, arrival impetuous, await not for the sake of thine own, if only but to seek further the nuisance of humanity's disdain. Drawn into its lineage of force, founded within but surrounded by its guards. Gone are yesternights and days of nighted rooms, captivity for the sake alone but to forbear its regard. Guess it so. Seem it so. Second to none other than one's own sanity's ward, fed upon verses of mispronounced beginnings; and yet to end with the promise of renewal.