the
sun grows distant in the grey-striated sky,
 
 a
 hazy stole wads the lacklustre barren crofts, 
 
 
 immured
 by deepening shadows, the lichens 
  
 
 
 and
 squamous excretions of crestfallen trees 
 
 
 acquiesce
 to the mauling jowls of languor. 
 
 
 then,
 in a trice, lifted from the hardening soil, 
 
 
 manes
 laced from aurous phosphenes foulder 
 
 
 across
 the wearisome pall, flinging vestigial 
 
 
 stabs
 of conscience cold-eyed into the venal 
 
 
 cleaving
 the fabric of time and space apart, 
 
 
 the
 flaming bosom of this eidolon burgeons 
 
 
 evermore
 ardently through the effluvium of 
  
 
 
 crawling
 chaos, and wounds invultuations 
 
 
 that
 stumble on her wayfaring. 
 
 
for,
 beyond the mephetic parhelia of febrile 
 
 
 lures
 and gibbous mirages sprawls her feoff 
 
 
 in
 stark eloignment
 from
 mundane designs, 
 
 
 illumed
 by a twin of lodestars, wellsprings of 
 
 
 elegance
 and sovereignty. 
 
 
 
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