When the grain of sand is plastered
                                                        On rivers of sawdust, you can
Exclaim and pronounce the proceedings
                                                        Dead. You may climb the ratcheted
Stairway leading the charge against
                                                        Time. And you may derive umpteen
Equations equating dishonor with
                    Dread. But time will pass in empty
Containers overflowing with rhombus
This entry was posted in Poetry.

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