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.
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