The back to front of fashionable words
that make their home in
pages placed between two trees
matured through time, a makeover
most pressing, is enough to send the
citizens running.

To wall and chair grey the clouds
dull above, no threatens of rain
nor snow, awaiting the seating
those guns cocked, soldiers
at the ready of the indefensible.

One last gasp, one last sprig
of holly, the finality of hope
that whisks itself through
blindfolded vision, through chained
limb, a staunchly resolute warrior
smiling loftily to that sky dimmed.