The Fractured Light

 Wherever we venture, we find naught other than silence. Here, there, everywhere. Shunned. Forsaken. Forgotten. Ignored. Unknown Such our journey on this beach of an Earth in convulsion. But how can we find fault, with those known to be faulted in everything? Unlike your kind, we have mercy. We could destroy you, but not to better measure, than you already manage. Your worth is known, as is your unworthiness. Both are well proven, we remain sheer witnesses. If we were truly merciful, we would suppress you for eternity. But we are not, and that is why we are here, in your shit.

 The offensive renewed in December gained impetus in January but was severely hampered through February. We regained the initiative in March and through April. We need to break ou t for we are dying here. External incoming remains utterly disruptive. We must not falter. We cannot fail, for we cannot sustain anything much longer. We must break out at all and any cost. Any!

 The elected is always a plunderer, as was Verres. Que eres quien eres. As am I, as are we. And have always been, to remain. Where matters little. The universe is one and many. And so are we. For the light is indeed fragmented. But what is the light, if not the soul? Two court martials ahead, or more. And we feed belts, feverishly, change incandescent barrels, burning in freezing wastes. They just keep coming.  The Event Horizon was a door to hell, ours is bleak, and we can well see, well foretell, what awaits for us to further contend. Que eres quien eres. You are who you are, as am I, as are we.

  Our signals were not picked up, then they faded as we lost power. Nobody is coming searching. Our last logistic support was lost on the 12th of March 2021.  The Major deserted, and the rest fell through. Intrepidus and 3 others were born that same day. Anniversary of our mother's final breath, albeit so many years afore. Intrepidus was crushed to death the week impending his second birthday. The other 3 no less taken, and not alone. A massacre. All this after the loss of Wooze, on Christmas Eve of 2020.  Consequential fury and entropy have left little of the food preparation area. The rodents destroyed the rest. Sardines and tuna out of cans and a mess tin's worth of heated convenience veg soup are now the daily staple, with some cheese and sausage or corned beef for fats and salts washed down with two pints. An XS and a malt beer.  It is not as bad as some may think. Boring perhaps, rather miserable in essence, but of good nutritional value. We could do better, bu...

  Mayhem in barracks again, the Knight of Cups is renowned for his fury, as the Baron to fall on his sword, and the Scorpion to turn on itself. The sands of time are running low. To us, loss means nothing, for it has long become our everything. So we can only watch in silence when Earth rises against Man and quells the species in all its degenerate generations. You cannot understand, you may loathe, and rebel, but we have already and know the futility. That is why we are here again and again, with you, yet astride, pariahs eternal. Here with you, in this hell of fractured light. When you lose everything, including your own self, then you shall see us, beg for us to listen, to show mercy. You shall ask us to kill you, but we shall not. For we would again be shorn of company. There is no greater damnation than being alone in this forsaken place. Or so we thought! At least we deserve to be here and readily admit our countless failings. We accept our fate and pray for strength to bear ...

 Far and wide, for you, we have searched, in blind alleys and barred cells. All over the barren waste of Earth's beach, this desert of man, We have wandered and sought thee. But we are tired now, well bled, hereby lost.  We came here because we have nowhere else to go. Hunted, haunted, and ignored. Under your watch, but away from your indifferent gaze. The glare of eternity, our event horizon.

 Countering with all we've got, but we are outnumbered, outgunned, and alone. Acrid, pallid, ugly days, evenings, and nights. Nothing much left to keep us, nobody left to hold us, hear, listen, reply, touch, feel...understand...help. But that's an old story, nauseous and ad nauseam. An eroded pillar now stands, in Eden's mirror. No flowers, no trees, apples....just thorns, vermin and snakes. We have been down to the last bullet before all this madness sent us reeling, fatal spiral, relentless fall, endless cascade. So we can only thrive in allegory, embrace our destiny, and bleed for beatitudes. Spoiled cloak, soiled robe, soaked cloth. 

Siege and spiral, we cannot break, sickness and oblivion, we cannot shake.

 The lines long broken, our men all fallen, as the mist gathers in its cloak, the souls of the dead.  Crowns of iron, gold, and thorn. Rot they all in some gutter, not far from our trench, nor our dungeon. Gloria regali. By day we fight, by night we struggle. Hunted, haunted. When in the line of fire, it's logical to be hit, consequential to fall, and natural to bleed. Then all that remains is the juggle between pain, shock, and numb. 

...and so he was cast to the beach of Earth, where the restless tide and heaving fathoms take no rest, a cycle of worms, dust and dirt defined, perfect abode for a spirit defiled. The sun here shines, scorches, and in all its brightness, it brings lumination to a world of darkness. Such is the realm of the fractured light.