The raven has its folly in the mist, the dash of daylght suspends its animation in flight, the reflection is clear to the eye of the fox. But tranquil as it would appear, the dust of time sways reason. Paths have crossed, negotiated by selection. Was the fire drug cold by the shovel, or by the trembling hand of a sayer of rhymes. Challenge the insult that is thrown by angst and fear, the imposter of despair is a shadow to the hidden face in the gloam. Paradoxical isolation shimmers in the recessed canyons of those who chose to see, but cannot be seen. – Sinz
