The Saturday fell awkward into the night.
Fellow men and moon.
Raising beneath the stars.
A hollow man stands with great power.
And those below sit fingerless and bored.
To the bone.
The fatherly figures are but the graceless endless sight.
In the eyes of the blind fool.
Grasping to grip a straw that waits no longer.
The shallowly splintered weeds swallow the sun in the clasp of a burning hand.
The Sunday collapses to morning.