East Of The Wall - Beasteater

Built on high, the scaffold's walls are hinged to the fold. The step slopes downward for none. Their aims ran steep. So where, then, must you have tryst? A crane of the neck- your crooked eyes rose to rest where the loft hung.

The weight you've sweat here will not lighten your load. It gnaws on fragments of your tired soul. Your line: an arc for progress. Your sky: a roof. Your gate is closed. The way for you is plowed. The cart you pull is culled from your bones.

In darkness ashes coat your lungs. In silence there is only defeat. Wisdom to you now is but a burden. The breeze that broke you came from your throat.

No ire can keep burning. No wrath is wrought by the lowly. A slow step and you've only to wait until, claws bent, mind fogging, the next wind will topple you wholly. Cold mire, deep sopping… climb up and pull your load.

The waves all broke, and sovereigns tend the falls. The tide broke, a cloven splash, and sovereigns tend the falls as if rising again and again to be chopped at the knees was a gift.

The impetus will fade with dusk. You sorrel nag, your coat is blood and rust.