Time is a line threaded with grief-spirals out only to come back to feast,

Time is a line once drawn out of love-creation that longs for destruction’s soft nudge,

Time is a line in helix of grief-around it all bends in cruelest of wreath,

Time is divine and its dreams contain all-soil born saplings that reach for the stars,

Time is of summer that bleeds into fall-loss sprung like plague in wintry crawl,

Time is a line in the shape of a maw-choking upon its own tail as it slithers…

Away!

When truth turns from glory all heroes lie bold,

Ill raiments forged sadly from fires long cold,

Their horde met in stride by tempestuous tides of black clouds that ride on winds dew scented with ice,

The ice be the pain sublimated from loss that mourns from gravestones ‘dorned in funereal moss,

Ensconced within shadow the face of the hallowed looks upon the confusion lain like blankets of snow,

Wreathed in dread unknown they scatter as children their cries not to god but to the bosoms of mother,

Upon thee hungry knowing eyes,

Then it rolls upon you its weight of timeless failing of dawning realization of a line so drawn in circle,

Fell screams challenge the singing winds as a grim chorus of their deaths begin,

Fallow once this field but soon flowers will grow high turning of the wheel into the yawn of time,

Confusion turns to knowing and knowing turns to horror,

A line so drawn in bloody circle knows only of itself,

Time, it makes of all blood to richen the soil the nectar feeds the yawn and rhythm breathes it’s song,

A line drawn in circle knows only of itself,

Ride upon pale screams of wrong and glean the path to endless night without dawn’s lonesome call,

Ebon specter of ever night bound to its grief in yolk of time’s crooked mile now flies high-oh so high,

Anchored at birth we are to our endings chained to our dreams dead and descending leaden our hearts their rhythms unsteady leaden our souls the burden lay so heavy,

Time is a line threaded with grief spirals out only to come back to feast time is a line once drawn out of love creation that waits for destruction’s never song,

Time is a line in the shape of a maw choking upon its own tail as it slithers away,

Time is a line in the shape of us all clock hands that rise must likewise bear their fall,

Hungry they be no more,

I am stoic mountain that gives stone, I am mason to hammer it true and with broken hands I ever labor.

My grief eternal, my sorrow hung in chain and my loneliness burdens without cold sweet relent,

With broken hands I ever labor,

I am forever but never named,

Rid of old pestilence of hubris and ignorance a specter sheds tears to wet the seeds that times left,

A sad ghost can lay on down ‘pon motionless funeral mounds and calloused hands finally know a hard day’s work is done,

Now fertile be the ground where flowers grow up high reaching to heaven though heavens a lie,

I am forever,

Forever and ever,

I am forever,

Forever, but never named

Time is a line its palate of Fall rust to dissolve and wither the soul,

Time is a line that portents the end-what goes around will come back again.