mossy lichen
Oh shining stone, ancient tome.
Last long in the wind.
From everything, and back again.
It’s too late to ask when.
For naught but last.
A passing fast.
I’ve already asked when.
Write nothing at all.
A beautiful fall.
Lay poison to the pen.
Trying man shiver.
Gold standards of silver.
An Englishman’s tea warp.
Harping mysticism.
A terrible elitism.
I might still kill her.
Yellow shores of Neptune.
Lie tiring fairies.
Dancing in the day.
Crying jester.
Feather asunder.
Sings in perfect tune.
Telling story.
Nasty stories.
An ethereal claim.
But ever final.
Fox’s tale.
I don’t think he’s to blame.
For I might still kill her.
I might still kill her.
As any working man would.
abstract obsidian
brittle crater