Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Chronic

I comprehend all.
Do you not see, little ones?
In his vast agelessness he is neither just,

nor wise,

nor kind:

he is a perpetual child with a magnifying-glass, focusing a thousand infernal furies upon you.

He is Time, and he has his grubby little fingers upon your wings, ready to pluck.
He is Time, and he will steal from you everyone you ever love.
He is Time, and he will burn the stars in your eyes to cinders.
He is Time, and he is not coming;

he is already here.

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Published in: on February 18, 2010 at 10:39 pm  Comments (1)  
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One CommentLeave a comment

  1. Despite the change in person, I think you’ve nailed it with this version. Excellent work.


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