The Ancient Fever

With the fever of a claw, protracted briskly before the

North day’s sun—bristling leaves of ancient flora rain subtly from below—Until, swiftly, the deeds are followed through

Resting peacefully adjacent to the

Covered toes of an intendeds step—resonates the fallen ivories genuflecting upwards from the hollow lake

Fangs of sincerity, biting woefully unto

A leathering type of skin—Poring over—are the Jagged excursions of remorse—in code—yet willfully exorcising the last institutions interred upon kismet’s forlorn smile

Sovereign territory.  Gated, in unrelenting irony, alive within—tenuous fibers of scarcity unchained—the whispers of the weakest heir—(Calling)—Daring for its unlocking sigh

The wisdom that is dwelling herein should be received as wisdom, not fact, but intelligence beyond assessment—just as

Circumstances offer inference, so do the intermittent cries that strain melodically underneath the windswept overture