By JC Collins
It was a cruel October and the Lodgers’ fed, their like stomach and like liver with moral bread. The Lodgers’ filled their like lungs and like heart gladdened, to ole’ glorious song and a mischief maddened. The Lodgers’ like brain and like eyes consumed, the haggis of man and beastly pruned. The Lodgers’ they are, like horn and hoof, the burden of flesh and heavenly roof. Bleed and stem, the rain of flesh, suffer the folds of mortal mesh. Like parts and shiver, the world falls apart, leaving in place a like Lodgers’ a la carte.
All these passing seasons on the road to damnation.
For what we are and what we wish to be are derailed by the hard lessons of life which are not under our complete control. The factors and circumstances which surround our existence and prevalent desire for more than, are subjected to the flow of energy and heart which swirl together in patterns of the symbiotic search for the greatness beyond.