5 minute five hundred pound appraisal, and the Sunday back up Ronda rewrites.
23.10.24 Ronda shadows. I cannot say it yet, the heart wont form, and hurt wont yield, so it sits above it's self; caged and molten in the free forming waves that crash the ancient parapets. The ledge, where we dare not speak, or walk beyond the skin. Those small tactile points, the hurts of wars, that suffer in the silence of retreating; and faded smiles, walled up within them selves. A bluff hold of memory, high above a lime stone head, looking out to the ancient plain, where warrior armies gather in the deep below, arms drawn, knives ready. Blood-shed. MB High above the plains of Ronda 27.10.24 She's alone, pointed straight ahead; on the edge, above the plain. The morning light, forms low. The wind a whining screech around her. She braces into it.But In reality she sees nothing, for the time for that has past, even with the long hard pull of focused sight. So instead she bores into the wide expanse, a broken semi circle of greys, things that have bee...