In time the claws return, surface to our view,
In shadows, the recess of a celebration.
They revel in the fool and celebrant.
Basking, festering in faint victory.
Destined to fall, to wilt, therein unredeemed Soul.
Time there moves without speed, The end faintly felt, ever hoped so.
Softly suffering alone in the pale lit cavernous gnashing
Between the worlds, where children’s children fill with hope,
Watch them swell in pride, dissolve into despair.
The blindness, to a trojan cackled laughter.
Who you are, the essence, the womb derived.
an undefended destiny, into which the celebrant may slide.
Copyright 2024 Mark Roach
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