Is it the quickened step of the of horse, the hoofs of time surrendering their hastened blow on earthen wine?
Or, could it be the dogs breath of Saturn’s twist, regailing the frost of stolen winter’s curse?
Fast as it might, the slow descent of the tale of the draconian wordsmith’s plight is an
incrimination in salluator remonstrance that takes the earthen chalice to the envious Gods of Sargon.
The plight of angels fallen, from an earmarked for collapse thimble head of asylum, is the flowers petal.
The the dragonflies’ contempt is a minor flaw in the fall’s shadow. As the honeybee, and I am not immortal,
as the new blades of grass will wither. But, I am circumvented by the fantasy,
the angular line that renounces polarity. There is not a start, a beginning. For there is no end.
The parable foretells the date of spring’s return.- Sinz