he stands so distantly from something
anything now to distract
with dry horizons amplifying
a new method to react
the power gently rumbles
dry bar sweating in the heat
another day without demand
another humbling defeat
he wakes up in a cold sweat
dreaming of that broken arrow
sitting distant in the desert
feeding fear into his marrow
and not unsure just taught obscure
he shuffles through the papers
an unrelenting modem
simply masquerading totems
of an antiquated memory
succinct hermetic pedigrees
he finds the information glued together in a folder
marked in pen "shear stress"
a new response to algorithms
he takes the paper, pockets filled
a sunrise breaching on the hill
he leaves the office hastily
he trips over his shadow

and now he waits out by the rocks
brandishing a silver blade
knowing well this might be his last visceral way to evade
an unrelying prophecy
he stumbles solemnly to see
the broken arrow sitting in between the rocks and brush
but there stands the old man holding to a rusted gun
fighting over fortune and to leave there must be one
they hold still in a stalemate
'til triggers click in concentrate
the blade comes swinging softly down
a quicker moment to rebound
and silence sets in loudly as the two lay side by side
one stuck silver in his gut
the other swept through by his pride
he's bending to the west trying to stand with all his might
he's bending to the west trying to make it through the night

with power comes great fortune but with fortune comes disease
an unreliant method to discover flexible degrees
in which one cowers freely with promise to uphold
a new freeze over shore it's never felt so cold
he reflects on his actions and the life he lived to be
such a forming magistrate he hold to coins to agitate
an unrelenting memory of how he stands so tall
the broken arrow sold off to the corporate recall
now of sand with less demand he thinks so of his mentor
laying in the sand with silver blade dug deep into his ribs
a life so lived with retrospect does rarely bleed a sky so dry
he knows that broken arrow is just bending in some warehouse
soon to be a powerhouse force driving violence to the lands
nothing simple now withstands
he misses his appointment book
his simple house and fresh outlook
his coworkers and daily tasks
his records sat on glass
his words askew now ever pending
bending towards a newer lending
bending of the will and sorrow
mending borrows of tomorrow
bending iron grates so tall to sneak between the greater law
of bending lies to newer truths
he bends the sky to touch the roof
and sit beneath the newer fortune
remnants of a lore impending
now a certain simple doom
tucked between the sheets in deeper corners of the room
he bends the iron ever wrought
he bends to touch the light he sought
he bends to feel sand beneath
he bends to reach the truth he seems
he bends to simple quartered notions
keeping in predicted motions
circling the bending fleet
upon waters where he meets
his newer fortune cursed with blood
with synergy and dried up mud
the desert now a glancing thought
the sand so dry to where he taught
himself on patterned recollection
moving past some new collection
back is breaking, bending power
never still, never cowered
bending to the will
bending to keep still
bending fortune missing motives
bending over tired feet
bending up to miss the mark
bending round the water's edge
bending through a single image
bending to a disappointment
bending freely bending bent
masses of the people bending lies into a truth
bending thoroughly to justify the smaller fallacies that rue
the days of forward marching motion
bending light through prisms stacked
and bending to the lore that kept them pushing him on track
bending to the fourth degree
bending to a fleeting tree
the branches bent in wicked knots
and bent around the grave he wrought
to bend the faces history had forgotten to never see
he bends into the ocean keeping straight within his stride
he bends into the ocean with an underlying glide
and with last intuition he can glance at sun above
it's bending through the atmosphere with glimmers of lost love
it's bending memories of final stances in the sand
it's bending to the home where he meets with demands
there is no solemn retrospect
there is no motion for respect
there is no drier eye intact
there is no bending of the sea
there is no bending electrocution
driving him to wordless fusion
lacking conversationalist
he sits beside the sea at rest
he inventories all his motions
bending memory's emotion
he inventories all his motions
bending memory's emotion