never is a realization, or, at a lower level, the loss of hope,
squirming for want of something, maybe, but bona fide never
is the last breaths of a fight, a lifeless eternity, maybe, a
dried tumble weed that pushes or is pushed through
motions; a lost devotion to a cause that’s even further gone
acceptance of some sort of damnation, submission to an
inevitable retrograde; it is not the death of the body itself,
but rather the submission of the soul and a relenting to the
death; it is that dreaded question, when is the cause lost?
When should hope be gone, should the terminating preparations
be made? Languish, then, in the loss of a rhythm, abandonment
of a substrate and arrival of dissonance far removed from any
semblance of familiarity, perish in the inevitable, but at what
point does Willam Travis etch his line and when did the last
defenders know that they would fight, but lose?