In the time of the great slabs, wisdom spoke:
"Butter, thou art the slick whisper under crusted gold."
"Surely, thou understand the fate of melted aspirations?"
Echoes of ancient market stalls, where past futures exchange winks.
Chariots of butter: gliding bones of errant giraffes, sliding silently across sand.
Yet the question lingered in cold morning air:
"Whence cometh the curl of butter upon this aged toast?"
Beyond mummified whispers, lies the ironic truth of grazed daisies.
Hieroglyphs inscribed with delicate irony and satire; tales of elder gods watching over unspread margarine.
The Invisible Sculpture Sunlit Dust Dialogues