Smoke screen mirror, a powerful array of that Old House, forming a wall of opposition that could make it exceedingly difficult for him. It revealed a measure of contempt and distrust toward their own son.
Years wore themselves away, communications between them became more and more rare, or perhaps it was because of the need to cleanse The Bear. It shambled about in the shadows, forever hungry for tribute. It ruled within the walls of that Old House, as surely as the crows commanded the trees and the wires that stood around the perimeter of the yards.
Madness began a slow steady drip down into the foundations. Hymns of Intention did nothing to cancel their knowledge of the coming despair, a hail of lost chances.
Lana tried to build a personal ice wall to prevent her from feeling the sting of inevitability. Martin played at an emotional raffle, knowing he had as much chance at escaping those walls as going up against the judgment of The Highwaymen.
Ash on the forehead-
the history of the tomb,
Who dances here now ?
The rooms were also seeking the light; only a crimson aneurysm came through the windows, like a falling star that devours the sunrise. The smoke kissed mirrors and the windowpanes exchanged cutting looks, fracture’s smiles flying over the waves.
House sales were down. The children dreamt of Disneyland and other sanitized nightmare locales. It mattered not – often looking out the cracked glass of white tobacco – That Old House – their expectations could be seen riding by with The Highwaymen, pale jewels and withered crab-apples in the same satchels .
He should not be here –
One hand changed, his fall bled out,
he found his sea –
Sharp blue switch blade of regrets.
That Old House may be empty, but it will always be occupied with memories in the smoke screen mirror.