To Arms
Beneath the twisted sands they say, are that of which we cannot be again.
Each breath taken long gone from view.
As we recollect of ticking hands, vision seems clearer if only for what we could have sensed.
The needless waffling, the nonsense muddied through as if all important. Delaying that which was truly superior in vain for that which was not foreseeable.
You ask, how were we to know? To that there is no answer other than we are not meant to. The clouded future is just that. A fog in which we must navigate blindly in the night. Lit only by the moons of preparation. Hoping against droplets of reality forming in the mist that what we have armed ourselves with will indeed serve us well as the time of reckoning approaches.
Each breath taken long gone from view.
As we recollect of ticking hands, vision seems clearer if only for what we could have sensed.
The needless waffling, the nonsense muddied through as if all important. Delaying that which was truly superior in vain for that which was not foreseeable.
You ask, how were we to know? To that there is no answer other than we are not meant to. The clouded future is just that. A fog in which we must navigate blindly in the night. Lit only by the moons of preparation. Hoping against droplets of reality forming in the mist that what we have armed ourselves with will indeed serve us well as the time of reckoning approaches.
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