A cannonade, deferred. Who thought it wise to spit upon the glory of the day? Fighting ignobly, warring interminably. No sword, nor word of mine, enters the bray!
Lil’ Rhodie
Heretofore, under the guidance of his most exhalted, and bound to the affectations of a prudent, yet callous head, press everforward. Never leaning, never wavering in the face of spite. Not once a grimace to show. Donning a madras and nothing more. Clinging to the open air as upon a leaden anchor. Coastal claims of charging upheaval displace the realm once thought to be home. Not homme. Not herr. Emptied, sullied – nay! Jocular invocations heeded by those thought gone. Parading down the ghostly promenade, smelling of salt and rot. Metronome taps to the corazonal beat. Hold fast to the memories faded, that once thought lost, may indeed be found.
