Iniquity slipped from the grasp of the clocks hands

and sat high upon the throne of eternal complacency

as dew settled on the potential of satisfactions unrequited.


Deviant minions slowly sowed the seeds of darkness

hoping to reap the harvest of growing shadows

only to find the light lacking and soil infertile.


The years, having been unkind, left nothing,

not a dwindling recollection remained of yore;

the lore had vanished spectral in its passing, ignored.


Dust scattered on the fields of grand intentions

disturbed only by the footprints of stray folly

untouched by the stagnant winds of change.


What now will become of the untraveled passages

their passions long having faded from the landscape

replaced by the unwritten stanzas’ deep impressions?


Will the tiller refill the ruts of lethargy, replenished

or just barely scratch the surface, further erasing

any remaining semblance of what once was?


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