Seeing it through I drew a pattern to fruition. A mission made possible through thought and omission. Of the torrents of doubt dampening the mouth. Mumbling bouts into existence. Droplets frolic at my feet establishing a river. Cold bites and shivers as if I was jacked from the Titanic. Hence my wading is frantic. A soulful song beating into a groove of a fruition raised by the Black piece’s move.