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?