From the ashes of the past few weeks

As quietly as I entered this little world of free speech and open opinions I will rise from the ashes of instability’s flames, black wings unfurled once more as the embers of creativity burn me from within with the damning heat of a critics sarcastic barbs. So look deep into the night of my mind eye’s bleak and jaded vision of depressions crops reaching full articulated might, no happy thoughts to corrupt the endless winter landscapes of a once positive outlook striped bare.

And should I make it into the footnotes of a passer-by’s casual glance at all the treasures the week will reveal, a twisted smile of ill-inspired and twisted intent will creep itself across the open plains of my world weary face. So till the twilight hours of another day I bid farewell to all those willing to read my words, indulge my depressive edge and grant me a brief reprieve from the endless slaughter of life’s cruel torrent.

So to mark the second of the minute of the hour of the day I ask that with the beverage near to hand you raise a toast, saying under breathe or loud as a banshee’s cry “when hell is at the gates, there’s still a gate standing!”, an evil glance of unnerving insanity conveyed to anyone that would disapprovingly review your little display.

Till the next

Bob Larkin

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