Hen scratch, harbinger of brain clouds, has long passed and, now, a fuster cluck of haze drowns days.
Slopes sync with brows, offering valleys of despair and descension on every face.
Some would stand stalwart, readying breaths for the trek-and-tumble ahead, sure that a secret serac around the block could not be considered a possible obstacle—one stopping determined progress cold.
But, if there were a bijou hiding in the stacks of stops while also glimmering hope, assuredly—whether horizon presents pop-up glaciers or sky erasers, it matters not. For some, the answer is destined to always relay ‘nope’.