as all suns spiral
into dust
the driftless sand
turns vitreous
melting
into molten mire
of cataclysmic cries
heard passive
mass of the morass
miasmic
swallowed
by the naked eye
reflective of the roving truths
our semblance
bears inside
where narrative
spares none
for it is here
that we must make our peace
behold the vision
ne’er beholden
watch its light
bend into prism
let no pride
build prison walls
not privy to the pain unseen
nothing is as blinding
as the bleakness
of the mind forsworn
for love is won
with wakeful eyes
and heart supine
pray heed the moral
etched in time
said spun
by loom
of Somnus’ station
Max, or Not 