dying with a whisper would be a good death. down those lanes we grift the sway of our tides. blending swiftly toward the west of our flittering joys. such furious fathoms are always mocked, threadbare in quiet spasms. silent histories, like crime scenes serenaded by cellos. so ghastly, the things we worship. so inevitable, the things we love. our smiles are juggernauts of will, and our sacrifices reflect exactly that. a starlight ricochet. a welcome void. we remain the nicknames of Nature. our collection of saviors. and, oh, that murk toward which we rally. maybe the haste is not what we require, but the hindrance of aggressive vernacular? and it's quite possible that we may need to start burying people in the places we've been fighting over. of course the End will come with a bang, but the resurgence will come by a whisper among the survivors.
