Resolution
The whistle sounds and
the silence of centuries collapse as
people rise to their feet.
Hardened faces march towards the effervescent, unenlightened
lights; the pits and mines resolutely holt. The foundations of power
buckle under the weight of a hundred bruised and blacken faced
sons.
The sound of crystal shards prance into the ears of the upstanding,
the arrestingly corrupted. The dead toes have bled out and supple leather has
ripped; a resolution for a century founded on feet.
Advertisement
