Welcome. Perhaps you will awaken some sleeping writers around here. Where has she been? And where did she come from? She was a mystery contributor, too, as far as I knew. Blessed by her presence, we were. And now this. Pour it on us, we are parched. We have diminished ourselves to mostly quibbling, we who hold our own promise at bay. We crunch up in little balls, only opening enough to lash out at each other. We stride like kings and queens, but deserve no subjects, carry on no diplomacy. Lick our feet, we call out, but there are none who would kneel before us. "Fan our flames", but only dead ashes are here. Our muscles ache for disuse, our temples ache from squinting into the sun, hoping for the descent of our deliverers. Our swords are dull and only serve to irritate our transgressors. Our shields have grown moss, swords might stick in them, if only we could still hold them up.
