the time bind


of many courses
she doesnt age well
isnt the jewel of the morning light
or a beacon of any hopes
except contrived anomaly
the echoes of motors past
her will her hand
wrinkle and fade
her tongue loud as
saw on metal
without charm even in this age
of the seeker
her ceiling is glass
her cradle is glass
a constant sparkles
down her every path

 

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