with requisite feathery quill
scribbles where can we go
from here?
o ye
of little imagination
behold all the days
unraveling, time unrolling
its carpet for little seeds
germination defies
your eschatology
but it’s damn near
impossible not to fixate
upon the moths
unfluttered in the wax
to contemplate
the ghost smoke
and final ash
is it possible to not gaze
into the bone-abyss
of a shortsighted calendar
where the end
is always nigh
a quick glance outside
would reveal a squirrel
stuffing acorns into
the empty socket
of the timeless oak
can you even dare
to peel your eyes
from the scroll
and see
all your fears
are paper
step outside and
ache accordingly
