Truculent in the passive sense, as the leveller of hubris, as
the creature that claims you from the dark, an evermore
arbitrary closure will greet its shadow and culminate,
fulminate silently at the puncturing of possibility; and it is
only a silent crowd which will condole the length of each shadow,
the pressing of violet upon dilute yellows; the repetition, singsong
yellows carted off in their primal unwittiness to reversal.
Agents of lava-induced caricature move about in
circles, circumspect; the willynilly streak of dark is compounded.
Arguments, persuasions, exhortations of a less than wanted
reckoning pile up in a bowl of hollow oak; rivet them now with an eye
to seek and an eye to wander off tangentially, provincially, categorically.
The revellers that solaced in the lengthening of shadow now eye
the piercing avenues of trope, of a slippery train of unchained thought.