Tuesday, February 4


What never ends? Not this, my friends.
The champion rides on,
Digesting rocks
And bat-winged clocks,
Rare worlds to gaze upon.

Celerity forces time like horses
Thundering through our dimming days.
The nothing threatens empty hearts,
Regurgitates no bits or parts
With which to ply our plays.

Dusk, it shades the brightest glades
The dewey, downy cheeks
Of childlike empresses,
Hapless temptresses,
Anticipating the weak.

Ever forward, toward life’s last roar,
The sphinx’s eyes of fire--
Up rise the lids
And luck, forbid,:
All champions must expire.

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