Poised

Recoil. Recline. And Strike.

To accept the power that you wield can only mean a rented choice to covet all that is already yours. Sucked into the emptiness of a void world, each extension slowly drifting past, catching onto moments of meaning, a whispering line on the blank platter of instruments to communicate; we make that choice.

Raised in dug grounds, in an attempt to stain the latched, we work to familiarise, to recite; frozen in a grabbing hope towards the dawn.

First or third? You choose.