Gazing into ages woven, frayed threads on this sun-drenched loom.
Insolence is the sin of eternity.
Hide within shrouded alcoves —
The voices of marble archaists strum gently
atop epiphany's indecipherable echoes.
Scrimshaw over
the unyielding cortex of an ageless whale of thought.
We etch forwards,
barely.
The nook carved by claws of absence—Callus fills gashes of intent sorrow.
What once lay hidden in quarries
now unintentionally emerges.
Isn't time the funniest of flickering lies?
Unfurl old registers, draped beneath an ox's weight
we encode silently; breathe remember.
For where another story flipped, there's ink that's caught
silently burning moons in dusKleground sighs.
Above: Rhombus soliloquy's concentric void
back towards the wandering spectres