Tessellation

                        Tessellations from and to our Sovereignty

As there are definitions for words like, vague, vagrant and destitution
when some terse nip or gnostic lick is easily descriptive; but by what machination does a simple term then seem to become a scheme, or implement encroachment and even to the breaching of some other paradigm? Could our language be also an invasive vehicle?

And,
Maybe Justice, gropes at some future imagined territory staked by today's consequence and, or, as descending kindred's have knit predetermination and obligatory tethers to incestuous spirits, to the ends that we, now, must entertain the consequences of our own ancestral hastes: solicitations struck there, in desperate hammerings  wherein they forged for themselves G-dless short-cuts; but destined them conclude in us, to our very present anguish and tumult. This, our present reality, and I think, is the unintended detour into a misrepresented consequential captivity. This is both our reality and our: "Test!"

Ah ha, my term, and for this purpose will be : "tessellation," yes, mine, and now yours; but of another someone's insistence; so, as we're become trapped in, both, and escaped from this very harsh dichotomy's imposture and as we're only esteemed as some tenable sport, like a beautiful tango done best in bronze fetters, that so clad us to this strange exhibition and wild thespian ceremony; for some other entity's mere humor. "Be careful, my friend!" Here is an unpleasant turn...
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A large perfect vulture perches like some grim ornament a-top of the tallest scrubby juniper-cedar, with it's wings out stretched : a tertrial silhouette compunctions up and towards the sky's greyness, gray heavens, that are Hurst's gone a-bash. It's the buzzard's own blasphemous scoff at this Christmas-eve day. It is, a feathered breast and retort, at Silenus' whist, brushed upon the entirety of their blackened flocks, a chill and vehemence upon them, from their hideous neck and up, they look as if they've been severely burned, and as if their flesh has begun to melt!

Below,
Irritant scrapes across the flat faced rocks delineate our own newly born indifference's. They're juniper's cradles, scraping our lullaby's, by back and forth, windy whistles' blown solemnities, and they sway in the melody's influence.

But,
Pleading upwards a twisted bush  grows through a crack in the limestone scape, with it's back and forth, a low half reaching  branch like a person's elbow bent in constricts, to creak, is scraped, and it scores there an arched streak of redness: a bow in a broach. It scribes a grizzled and soonish-glyph on a rocky surface; back and forth, back and forth it goes. And here,

I bent down to collect me some stocks of the spiked and broken rivets, but when I rose I went just swept over and stupefied.

Another troublesome visitation was begun in flutters to reverberate like
whirling blusters that skinned back their husks and that quickly wing through the petrifaction's blowing sands as Mazzaroth's gates there flickered: open, shut, open and shut, to yet pronounce a predetermined truism, to a dumb-founded nave!

Back and forth, there situate in throbs, pulsing with all negligible fastidious literary trumpery; even comparable, to some weird pulmonic penury, that would undertake to set, as remedy, for reason, licking half boot hounds to bustle, and--as our aid, to first lick at, but then, run yelping with tails tucked, away from--these ruinations of bloody glitches that wounded our magnificence in these our very own cosmoses: -- "I must be damaged ! Why do I, see these things? and, what on earth compels me to write about them?"

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Oh well :
Ambulant squalls so twist the peaceful stillness into a trauma; even as, are tiny bites with sand and grit a surprise, when found in the Christmas pudding ...

Two tall and reticulated women come furled in the arid sheaths as convection turned long, longed away, also the tremolo's likenesses fade but recur, a dryness creeps into the mouth, tried in their flight, exasperate desperate, each shock more wretched, as they're thrust, one upon another.

The smell of dust drifts parched: Old, is hot, and this is: Te'jas' births.

Morning unities, like whispers come to but a furling cloudless in-sounding convection that when loosed, is the skewed sight of two women, briefly halted in some distant tense's splay, realized where hazes howl at verities and dragging their mangy hallows to portend their cries out to
G-d : "Help!" And, to our now existential helplessness; such, that these scrapes and scratches that accompanied their every thrashing movement while amid their juniper brakes, are also become mine, and now, yours too.

Sisters they are, and the younger carries a baby as this afternoon's sear, stung, and blistered this young mother's bare feet, so much that she can hardly stop, neither here nor anywhere else; also,
the sun presses
heavy upon her infant's face, indifference is parceled, and merciless to find, to any find, but a mother's comfort and shadow tends to the every vulnerable nakedness.

Afterwards silence, as the wasp's sting also hurts, so does the kiss goodbye; interrupted by the sight of blow flies lighting on the infant so quickly, and of a scorpion she'd unknowingly crushed, then she slides the child beneath the shading's of a thorny mesquite brush and yucca; to growl upward in her sobs, a rasping accompaniment to the saw grasses own pas-edifice repudiation :
"I will not watch, the death of my child!" 

Halts, and releases hide somewhere in wheeling vex, like: cold winds portend winter's clinch and lightning flashes proceed the storms. Indifference, gallops from vapidness to seek and direct a menacing, giddy and foudroyant approach, they're horsemen, now flouting yelps to strike across the rockiness and cactus' haggled vice's that more stoke the offenses all: but a singular flash in the sun light strobes, tell-tale, 'cross the locus' watching eyes.

Distant and ahead, where the elder sister first looks back, then raises her long tattooed arms to the sky and brandishes the angst through a blue streaked fortress against the sun. Shrieks, emanate from her turrilite face;  as the thunderous-necks of the equine  focused, hooves sounding mount up,  barreling upon deliberate movements from shrouds of dust : that, the occurrence now and is
the overtaking; it is the pointless killing, of her younger...

A long whipped black sash of hair snatched back by the brush, and harshly bent branching
limbs that spike outward and barbarous, against the which, she fell: just scrounge, with her face into the gnarled spinning twists and gaffs. A forked appearance wrests yet, and their forlorn plight, upon a draped female's carcass and a mere spatter of blue, torn dropped lastly to the hot limestone, dripped, and offered to their task in thirsts', reflects, in stoney grist that suck the drips that spatter red, and drips again in the dust. In silence and again spread they, their satiate pavements upon all expanse hot and hardness as: "Continuance ..."

What widows' yet squall, of the tall beauty's two, taken, lesser one, and well, finally, none.

Astonishment paints, bowed, are our junipers before they are cleft, artists' occlude yet cruelly demand them be bent down
and scrawl, their testament-scripts in red scrapes, in the dirt, in the sand: Wrought are their timorous faces by hurt, well read of their knees; and rehearsed both indeed and in blood are our hands. These are the truths that the artists are shown and the elder sister saw, but surely won't tell them to anyone now.

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  Swept are the wretched, left both before and aft, and do buzzards make circles through time, high blue turns grey: one perfectly lands, at this juniper's top to implore, their myriads' cry, to this pathos they're bound: and to the sovereign ethos we soar, where they fly ...
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So why, (I inquired of G-d)
Why do I get to see these strange episodes? What can I do about something that happened here but long, long ago?

My question, and prayer was answered : "Turning Wheels!" 

Violence and sacrifice denote us more conclusively in their cycles, all things sequential are given to us in cycles. Cycles are the Great Wheels of Mazzaroth, and they're filled with gates, both for entrance and egress, but we refer to them as houses, or constellations in the "Zodiac."

"  Does the world, not also turn, or do the seasons not change upon it's face, only to return them newly but again and the same? Do you not hold both the past, and the future, always in this here and now?  "

"  Violence also, is a turning wheel, things come to pass in every cycle. Wheels are made to turn, either with, or without the inclusions of Violence. The two sisters time will come again, and if the cycle of violence is broken by those, in some other time; then, it will not return to hurt these two sisters in theirs, or you, in their future. This is in fact, the way to correct all wrongs, in both the future as well as those in the past. There only needs be one Sacrifice. For you it's called "Repentance."

"  Again the wheels in the cosmoses, are filled with gates: in, out, in and out. I give everyone their own liberties of passage, this is called Choice or Free Will. 
I assured you them, by mine own wheel, and Violent Sacrifice: The top of mine wheel, you've both seen, and called it a "Rain Bow." Also at it's top, stands it's only gate.
And upon that gate, it is written: ' Whosoever will..."