Errant Fable

A striking resemblance to time turned dark

Entrails of embraces left beyond the reach of

feinted countenance, and

misguided     fits

 

Stranded across the palm of a tide

beaches burrowing beneath their wise grains

empty stories told

by the last     hourglass

 

Entropy, and symphony.

Such is the tumble of scotch

down the throat of the aching, erring world.

It strikes the stomach with its

unadorned mane

gold to the touch, but

warm to the vein.

 

Float   glide   glisten

stop.

 

You’ve gone errant, fable.

The final known is irrevocably sewn.

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