The Ritual Of Moving On
For good or ill, I atop the long and plenty view far farthings of wasting days beneath the notice of an idle western sun. Gone but not yet rotten, casting wise and bitter shadows on thoughts of hazy days. Casting stones into the hollow places within memory, stilling old candles – the herald of dusk – to make way for the failing seeds of dreams, and the shapeless happenstance of endings. Out fickle and weak tiresome faithless thing, trickle out beyond the eyes of old succor and be quit; be done. Look back upon this only to remember, and for nothing more.