One colossus per peephole allowed. Figment flavored
to take an edge off the flummox fielding questions.
Escorting a warble to its mumbled grave. The scree of
ages in the snare of minutes, a moment off the shelf
to hold in places never thought to exist. Under the skin
where the monsters meet the angels in mortal dance.
What can be if it weren’t, for deep menageries of
shadow calling nightfall into play. Fostering a daze, a
denial of the flames keeping the fire company. The
playgrounds of a dearth where the cornflowers bloom.
Round a tingly sense of passage back to squaring one.
Sorting gradations within the panoply. The calculus of
frailties attributable at arm’s length. To maneuver
twixt and twain in a twist of said arm, held accountable
for the durability of the mirage. Proverbial dips to the
dashes for finish lines in the immediacy. Amidst the
nothingness, a voice finding full circles a place to both
begin and end the story, never quite adding up to
nothing other than what seems to be what it
isn’t in toto.