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smooth as polished stone
marble bodies like three
for my –– sing! –– 

You do not have to be
, good or bad, for stolen time
conducts the hours in delicate
arbitration

a child wields the star
oblivion,

To be is to be one
of the many soldiers
of fortune.

When I was younger I was a renegade 
To the true muse, but not for lack 
Of worship

sailed across the pantheon of hours, an early spring of languor beyond time, beyond history, to bring the open fire resolution, striking lightning in the killing fields, haunting chorus rising under the sunk cost,

I have swept the floor and perhaps it is a fantasy 
Spawned from a heat-oppressed brain, but I think
Of Jung who sat on the rock in his youth and 
Could not tell which was which