Is it the quickened step of the horse, the hoofs of time surrendering their hastened blow on earthen wine?
Or, could it be the dog’s breath of Saturn’s twist, regaling 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 earth in chalis to the envious Gods of Sargon.
The plight of angels fallen, from an earmarked for collapse thimble head of asylum, is the flower’s petal.
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