Recompense Yesterday
By J Mac Stone


The night was Indigo. Not black, during this time of evening there is not daylight
or breeze. Aged branches, reaching for the treasured domicile, desire to share in the
nightfall’s arrival. That winking twilight was the evening Jersey stole from New York.
The solemn architecture intoned a loathsome papal history while the children cried out
for the contests to begin. Domino gasps. A sorry wanderer watches and leers from a
distant post. Thunder, like cannonballs in God’s own alley, crashes down on the attendees
who remain as the harbingers of morbid lectures begin to rant as one. Someday we will
have our reward cried the assemblage as they vowed their undying support for all the
Eucharist has possession of or could possibly offer.

Remembrances of feckless ambition, shared in a lodge designed for loftier aspirations
and accomplishments. A futile paean rings in surround sound exiting the reviled pipes
and entering our minds. Occupying the destination of future reasoning and preparing us
for tribulation we will never see. Exercise, dogmatic in duplicity urges us to confront our
ineptitude and resolve to attain stature. The movements are cherished in their domesticity
and result in a numb baptism that drove a sacred cow to the cliffs. The decisions are like
rainwater. Estuaries flow through xeric mental wastelands, seeking a resting place worthy
of their divine efforts. Unkempt posses of robes chase a sacred scroll. They commit,
deify and respectfully submit to an entity never seen. Windows of glass deny the
radiant effects of the exterior elements. These are visions of pain and loss unequaled, yet
beautiful. Artists and all loyal denizens can locate a minute section to call their own. Awe
inspiring, driven by humbled observations the panes become symbols. Cleric and sinner
alike deserve a place to ruminate over lost compensation in their pathetic endeavors
to attain some status in their banal existence. Choruses in ancient tongue reverberate
amongst the arches and the cut glass vibrates with passion as a virgin welcomes the
coital embrace of primordial ecstasy. Dissonance falls on the gathered like leaves in fall
season. Gusts of wind lift up some, while others lay dormant waiting for an improbable
redemption.

The eternal hotel awaits our compensation package, like a new university graduate plays
their hand in orgiastic greed amongst the tailors who sow the lies. Falsehoods abound
around, obfuscating the truth that the masses deserve to hear. Embellishments and
illegitimate demands cloud the vision for those who desire to visualize the genuine elixir.
Demonstrations of pomposity continue ritualistic slaying of the fatten bovine. Leaving
this den will reduce souls to symbols and conquest of the grail will ferment into bitter
wine. Bibulous mendicants chant. Unaware of the caustic decimations rendered by
their enfeebled dialogue they idle their graceless lives away in preparation for some
deliverance destined for dereliction. Opiates for the masses are poured out, justified in
their perversion of justice, to be devoured by all participants. Those who seek are all
destined to locate something.

Spastic invalids cherish the days in the sun’s warmth yet never comprehend the
magnitude of the grace this allotment will cost. As texts speak to the personage in a
quiescent cerebral tendency, there are percentages to contemplate. Embracing Kafka
or Camus will never be more dangerous. One may request the enviable finery from

the butchers block and realize, at some more mature date, that the chosen sustenance
was desiccated. So exudes the characterizations held within. Dogmatic doctrine can
thoroughly destructive to the inquisitive mind, but hypnotic to the gregarious followers
who crave simplification. Shall the noxious recompense begin now or does evidence
dictate another stretch of theological highway for us all?


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Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.