A piece at a time, -S.M. Bjarnson

My concentration broke and I was at the worst of them. Breathing under strict rule of where and when I was to leave and bleed my words and to whom. My glued eyes shut I reminisce in a once victorious land. I stand alone at the battle field of the mercenaries. I am a king if not a queen to the trap of solitude. I am the heir to a terrible crumbling kingdom. With cruel intent I will seek them out to become more than just a maiden in a chamber. There will be blood as there always is the red stain among the men in history.

Wishful thinking tells us that we are longer good, we are longer able. Who is the judge in the case? The ruler that signifies us disruptive. For a short time we may live out the remaining years will a solemn prayer of being an achievement of the human race, but you see that is the mistake we are all in a race.

Hills and valleys will let us know if our succession is relevant or rather a mistake of guidance on our elders part. We are children being led away with a string or a rope, led to another world where our imagination is held captive and our irrelevant lives became purposeful.

We stood through streams and creeks remembering our fallen brothers. The cold chills turning over the aged rocks, exposing secrets my lovely sisters kept. A dark hidden past was one thing and then another when the light made it glow. Terminal, the position our beloved on us. Our potion was a category for defeat and victory was not on the contents of victory. Sacrifice on the other hand was a very big ingredient in the poison.

Fruit taken from the tempting tree were we all at the devils hands, tug graves and cutting corners. There was music in the air. Swirling the temptations of what had come and what had not. We would not last the night, the morning dew taking the place of our final determination. Trembling words fluctuated around the matters of factual and factious.

Could you remind me of my crime dear sir? Could you so ever gallantly refresh my deprived memory of the crimes you accuse of me committing?

There was a line I had drawn upon the fallen walls of the kingdom we called home. White marks leading up and down and curve to remind us we were never to be left alone in this day in this age, we were prisoners. We were the answer to the most disgusting of questions.

The solutions for a match made in ever. Our turbulence qualified for a ok landing, but there was nothing and we stood for exactly that.

A piece at a time.

-S.M. Bjarnson