Silence of graveyard.

Crescently peeling from the skin of banality, falling to an unceremonious scuttle. Eyedrops to remedy the blur or a patch to rid the clarity? Chance leaves no time for the eddying of yesterday; we instead wander briskley along the knife edge of tomorrow. Scant property hinders the leader, whose sight destroys discovery, leaves a trail of discarded litany for some wayfarer to collect. Staggering into trampled footfalls, often habitually, often with a finger wrapped tightly around chaos, muttering curses at the steel links. Both loving and hating the majesty of the master, The illusory slave, the cantering fool who seems so free... And thus has the beast become bloated, and the one forgotten. Be they leader or last, their die has been cast and excess has left them rotten. Where kin lay solemnly are the placards of distress that venture woe un-uttered to the world, but whispered in the shadow and terror bestowed recess. Beautiful atrophy seizes another unmarked wonder and the void grows richer in splendour.