the wain of years long passed has upon a once fair face the furrows of a seasoned field set in its fallowed place yet without the steady plough the broken barren ground gives not of life its fullest fruits when harvest comes around.
these cold gods of yours know not of love’s desires and care much less for sacrifice our passions do require, so deny the heaven’s host hold fast to earthly thoughts for at least there is no cost nor deities to court when we let our souls embrace the coursing of the blood for this alone may satisfy more than extolled rewards
Italian frescoed clouds hang still upon the frost stained sky like Empyrean dreams from centuries long forgotten by and by no apprentice journeyman held brush upon this living air a master’s palette blended could only paint so fair
downstream not waiting for the bodies of friends or enemies to pass by dwelling on the future is as the past, a cause to deny, time is too precious for such folly so instead I close my eyes and hear only the present singing in the water.
the tide denied the sanderlings thus the little hidden things dared to raise their eyeless heads from their unlocked sandy beds in waters dark as Acheron until the new moon takes the sun and bares them to its silver’s plea to pull their sanctum back to sea so the ploughmen take the till and on the sands their feathers spill.