The earth turns like an anvil suspended in the sky, it is held in it's place by chains of power: Occult, macrocosmic and irresistable.
Chains too, fasten us to the surface of the earth and so around we go, prisoners,
it would seem, of forces and intentions we can never know.

Falter or flinch and you are dead, although steady hands and steady hearts sometimes prevail. Just remember how far you fall when you fall from grace and don't forget that in a world where even mountain-climbing can be reduced to a stunt, to miss by the width of a human hair is to fail.

There are bodies strewn everywhere, scattered like slaughtered birds up-and-down
the street and the land has pulled loose from
it's roots like an old dead tree in a gale or the way the heel peels away from an old pair of cowboy boots.

Certainly, this is the place where the heros from on-high are thrown down to shatter upon the dark plain; The place where Angels
leave claw-marks on the sky as they fall and burst apart on the earth below it; The place
where all good souls are fatally tested,

suicides who didn't know it.

the earth turns like an anvil suspended in the sky and life strikes sparks from it and we are hammered, little-little, into weird shapes that piss and whittle.

© W.G. Myers