the two-beast broke down and chanted.
Above him, the clapboard watchers pose
for paparazzi that no longer come.
The two-beast does not care.
His noise stifles their already
vacuous pleas. His requiems' cadence
wraps around the hollows,
hallowing the walls with lucid fallibility.
By noon he stirs in the quiet,
his voice having gone out with the others.
The two-beast stalks out to become the other.
His reluctance apparent. Working too hard is a good way to dash one's head against a chasm of frustration.
Unless we act upon them. Acting upon them in public, as testament, forces the certitude.
There will be instruments in August.
An unadultured note: I'm enjoying my new writing style. I'm sorry if you all hate it. I'd still like questions. Dialogues are fun and useful.