Rude awakenings and empty salt shakers and the muddy grey of late October
sifting behind golden trees, another day of dizzy wind and cruelty, the category
of dark souls exploding as headshakes rattle and outrage, draped in secondhand
clothes, slumps out of a dusty corner with a half-spent groan. How power with
its blood-soaked robes, fingers bent, grasping at the shiny, never reveals a tender
spot. How the aftermath lingers.