Thanks For Waiting

 On examination, the map proves wrong. That land could never offer beyond colours perplexingly arrayed. It presented flow but also stricture. It meant deeds and dying, in colloquy with estrangement. Thru the years and asseverations, the horizon only anticipated another day. No river could keep up with the weight of such hope.Those days became these days, a rumble from the ocean to enforce stratified polis overarching the usual strictures called life as we know it. The map shows boundaries of water and sand, direct gasping at potentials, and a language full of shiny red fruit. The imaginations grow succulent while Rimbaud himself discusses images of mazy life. Excess receives documentation. The superfund dilates with express exchange: Countries go to war for crap, minarets look like smokestacks, charity receives bad cess, a royal splatter covers all. These noble castle walls smell like direct payment. The perceived flames have no heft at all.