Striding, six inches off the ground.
Effortless, free from pain.
Soaring high, dwarfing trees below.
Flying dreams once again.
Long past is midnight.
Hours endure yet until the day.
Fresh wakened eyes fight
slumber's entreaties away.
Rise now. Make good speed.
Charcoal and hood swiftly adorn.
Cloaked for this task's need,
camouflage creatures are born.
Vague forms assembling,
muttering voices, words are few.
Hidden hearts trembling
ruthlessly fears veiled from view.
Leather set creaking,
wooden clunks, softly, metals chime.
Sounds without speaking
signal that now is the time.
Turn not back. Look ever forward.
Grasp the nettle.
A short story of dark, changing times. An ancient tale with modern resonances.
This is a thinly veiled allegorical piece of social commentary on the trials and
tribulations of one of the United Kingdom’s great institutions, the National Health
picks out our tight tenebrous track.
Mantle of murk, shades of black.
Dull, glistening hoar frost
scattered twigs yet unsnapped too lurk.
Clearings and streams crossed
threaten our clandestine work.
Vigilance of victim vipers.
Nerves of tinder.
So to the hillside…
Close ahead now the scene below.
Dark passion, our guide
simmers to soon overflow.
Here shall stand gravestones,
tombs empty yet, tomorrow filled.
Inscribed o'er fresh bones
names that the gods will have willed.
Past the point of no return now.
Be with us, Fates!
Words have failed. Our world must burn now.
"Your music still gives me that wonderful feeling of other worlds and possible
ways of living - and that's good!"
[John 'Twizzle' Simmons 2012]