The grave swallows the innocent whole, as easily as a yawn at midnight.
It’s only the innocent blood that falls, but somehow it falls faster; heavier than the weight of storm clouds and angrier than the dust kicked up by an army of beasts. Darkness doesn’t come until dirt closes over the truth, and keeps the thief’s loot safe.
Lots are cast not to share, but to slow down the rushing of restless feet, eager to find the next place to fall.
The voice that calls out in the open is like a pillar in endless plains; one difficult to decipher from all the proverbs and parables keeping meaning locked behind doors.
A key is dropped in the pool of repentance, and it waits to be found by the humble and broken.