They are friends. For so long they try. They moan and groan under the strain. They carry on all the same. The goal overrides all else they say. They are both bent on making it work, of proving as they say that they can. It is clearly not an easy task. At a time that they lack the resources to fight, that many would rather cringe, they toil, in heat, rain, and dark, they keep on they claim a date with fate. Even when they face the agony of a loss, they bond stoic.And when their neighbours wonder aloud though they feel what they are unsure those they feel for do, the friends are not diffident.
Together they commune daily in the bosom they lay. Intense yet subtle they chant praises and wail. They know people quake at the maze they seem to tread. Others say the craze they see in the friends makes them so. The cacophony confounds it would seem even those people call the weird as many of them walk the paths not there before. Not that the friends seem to care about the talk that brings even more there, to a milieu they cherish like no other people say now haunts. Sometimes they try to make it plain to no avail it seems though their visitors are also friends.
These new friends seem easy around their place. Now they come in droves every other day. Like clockwork they seem to tramp a lair others see otherwise they claim. This indeed is a major part of the dread the neighbours claim they feel, seeing ghosts in varied forms fill their space. Why they see what they claim seems to bewilder who they say they see going by the horror etched on the visitors’ faces as they stump and return. Some say it is the way they walk, others that it is what they fear, that people change so much in size just so.
Clothed in layers of scrap, as people say, no wonder they tickle the brain. Some shed sometimes, their toga waxes and wanes. Many say it is more than that. To them, an army from space is now in place. They say they care less that they look somewhat the same, as even those that say they are strange. It is words claim they speak like they sing which some say sounds like a croak. They profile them in many ways than one, frogs, crooks, and aliens on a mission so benign yet so profound. None seems convinced they live in their own world as everyone else does, strange though as it may as whoever professes.
The friends say they hear more than enough for a day. They no longer explain what it is to change. They say even they would let their friends be, able to live their drudgery how they may. They say they do not want to call them names, although admit slogs fit very well their mould. The irony fixates in all else, who again carry the name around in declared perplexity. Many say it is a slight to say they work, if their blasé speckled in obvious defiance is what work is all about, an effigy of the faithful to spite routine. Yet, they argue they are not mundane, that they work real work.
Indeed, the friends see their friends differently it seems, and it is not just because of the bond that cements their souls they insist. Indeed, they claim, the world beholds the anointed revealed, which does not make most laugh but indeed cry, sorry they say for being in league with the dead at all. They lament and it travels. They seek to act but only to change their minds on what to do and end up not doing much in the end. This, the friends revel in, a sign they claim bodes well for the realization of their own stated goals, including all else leaving their visiting friends alone.
They say they eschew the cynicism the desire cried high to understand their friends by others which they claim also denies the ability to make the narrative stick that they in fact do not lack. Even they concede their loss in the endeavour to figure the missing link, but rally to its heights in mystic verses that soothe their souls regardless. Being rooted on the ground though means they say try to must, even if only to salvage their friends, who they claim all represent. So, they carry on, glorious in hope, their faces shine.
It has gone on long enough for things to change, they say once they feel their friends would leave. Yet, hope keeps them focused on goals so dire they claim, they need to gain. The numbers recede by the day in what they agree ticks time away too fast for them to wait. Both visitors and neighbours seem to be leaving in time for change to fail perhaps the neighbours imagine, the friends claim, and pray they wait to see the day all would no longer be the same. They continue to work hard on the message of hope and of change, and of the role they claim of the bond that stills also works it way through.
At last they say it is clear what they have to say. They say they know why their friends leave, for souls to interlink quaint yet faint. They claim that shows the narrative sinks, even if how deep the move indicates for their neighbours may be just skin level. Yet, they wonder. Why anyone would defy the goal they confess befuddles, indeed, the ability intact. They say it like turning back two-thirds done into a trip feigning tire. Yet, they admit it is just the way. They say it takes time and that it would happen anyway, the link done, the visitors and friends fused, why they say their visitors must also leave.
The narrative they say forge in the message to their friends that sip into their souls all the time, complete now being just the norm. The emissary they claim is now in charge to move hope forward in change, to leave and perpetuate the completeness that emerges in tandem with the evolution of the message, in songs, wails and moans, and all. Loss is now a gain and pain, the flame that clears the way. In their solitude they sing again, to usher what they say is the way, the comity of friends that hold sway, in perpetuity they claim prevail, even as all, visitors and neighbours, the friends they are, leave for good.
