the roads along which the prophets walked are littered with silence. disparate remains of faithful whispers & righteous sighs. devoted dust motes hang upon sun stained air with unreal clarity & unclear intent. padded footsteps mirror war drums on the breeze & the horizon bound stare on their collective countenance echoes a history long forgotten, a wiped clean slate wrapped & pressed warm to the breast like an holy infant. helplessly tangled amidst wooded beads, strung pieces of silver & gold kissed by the commencing hammer & delicate, brittle grass, dried by centuries & woven with knobby fingers. once green & growing & gently laid to rest under the heels of some wizened & sagging forebear.















ae.