17 March '18
Universes unfold and collapse in time and space, but what about the furtive struggles of life in fear and passion? Do they ever dissipate? I do not have the answer; however, perhaps some reckoning, and evening solace, can be found in the silence of the dead of winter and in the storm tossed seas of faith and doubt.
The shallow grave of destiny denies the wolves of fate their morsel of enmitious fervour, but they dig in rapacious revel of this vacuous exon’s blanket of dust, a template of a universe’s empire, this mad with compulsion, exploding in chaos, perfect in rhythm, jesters folly kingdom of jackals. I fall to the way of the kings of Saturns victrol! Save for the speck of sand, I am not. The bones of glory are the stars that never shown bright.
The beggar trolls the wood and glen,
And happenstance pretends,
To lift the sky to heavens breach,
A second chance begins.
For all creations manifest,
Defeat of sorrows told,
A kindly gesture serves the king,
A ransom for his gold.