These unclean fetters on the dining table. Lacquered with envy. Dripping grievously through the tiny lines. Underneath these darkened eyes redeeming nothing.
Can you make it into thin air, transfer the gleaming heart elsewhere into darkness, or like a brittle branch never bare the imagined dead end in front.
Oh, what a terrifying expectation, boundless with immortal hues of dew on the brow.
The tree bends slightly just ever slightly all the glamorous ramurage replete with the eagle at the summit baring the immense gift of God, the squirrel in the midst on the bark, the soul’s imperial monster irate at root’s end. …while the wind gushes out & through innumerable ordeals, in all the portals unremembered. To be sought out. And vanquished. Just so.
Imperial like an arrogant walker on receding tides. Blistering. Carrying within the runic lore in the breast. One eye asunder now in the well dwelling eternally.
The Age is nigh. Death a whisperer elated. The underground streams of Yggdrasil gnawed to plight. The dragon now gasping.
Ô bleakness now done away;
whisper the end unto death,
receding under a Star.
