It will.

So we leave and so we go,

The rags.

They’re all but tattered rags or less, it is but feel or price which changes. The colors serve to distract the eye and the form declared always the new.

The happy widow.

So many whispers in a cycle of rage with hands to never come clean. It was to be but a squeal in the night, no fight, but a silence soon after.

Soft smiles.

How sweet the sound of children’s laughter sounds in quiet times. When food sits salted and pots all boil, when weapons are clean and stored. When all around is still but for the song of birds and the young.

Without looking up.

With eyes set firmly on what was before them and never further beyond, they would forsake all that followed.