Rustic life of a Blast furnace

In the withering end of a spoken word, life begins to fume and ferment. Walking on a pelted pathway, a whisker of life is seen in a frail shade of light. Yet this furnace is brittle and beaming westward. This hermetic creature is living a rustic life fully of sound, fury, trauma and hysteria since the outset of eclectic winter. No remorse or respite, it is bleeding an eternal hemorrhage in the seizure. A seizure that many synapses have felt painful, this collective being traverse beyond wisdom and beneath the vagary of a dilapidated self.