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Tuesday, March 17, 2020

Trog


There is movement all about me, forms I can’t discern, floating in my dreams
There are shadows on the cavern walls, wavering in chaotic streams

Questions scrape my bones like hungry wraiths, solutions never see the light of day
Bundle up the answers, bind them like sheaves of straw, set to fire in the night

The furies rise from the ash beds, there is no phoenix, no morning sun
           
Bury seeds in the cold-field, bits of knowledge, pushed into the wet earth
Fragile little plantlings hungry for life, set their roots and stretch out for the light
                       
Heedless of the storm descending, turn to face the darkened horizon, resisting
As dreams fall like stars from the sky, the harvest rots while and fields are set on fire  

There is phoenix rising, only the furies fly from the ash beds, their swarm blots the sun

We heard the promise and followed its call, we stood beneath the open sky
To bask in the solar wind, blind as the troglodyte emerging from the cave

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