Reconciliation and wrangling trees

Golden optics harden, their path follows the blazing weapon with detached, unexpressed eagerness. Every strand of muscle is jutting, steeled to react at the slightest trigger. In the months leading to now, my flesh has recovered most of the vigor it lost. Shoulders, breast and haunches are carved from iron;  masculine curves have become attractively square and full. My heart (forged to withstand pressure) is beating a calm, deft tempo. The fine hairs jutting out from these nostrils sway gently to the pace of every breath. Dripping ears pivot -- constantly adjusting to soak in the surrounding noise with sentinel discipline. 'There'll be water if God wills it.' The rusted verse rings faintly, echoing nostalgically down the halls and vacant rooms. Nothing is offered toward her invitation to press the subject of trials. She was, in my opinion, overly trusting of those trickster, backhanded voices.

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