Crisp Of Warning

Darkly burnt offerings made evident,
by the steampipe burn
etched into the back of the cloak of time.

grinding salt to the wound,
milling grist for the reapers,
who sew warped fabric with crooked hooks.

Falling to darkness,
saving light for the eons
Spin the yarn - weave the web.

saving grace for the eyes of God
treadles hum with care,
no sparrow to call.

burning in wavy mirage
from the ovens of oris,
futility is the backstroke in the river of hades.

like dancing the limbo in greased cowpies.

[tink~*~7-21-2005]

Our Hunter shouts "Release the Sky Terror!"
"Team Rocket will not destroy the North Pole!"
"Gotta catch 'em all!"

... and so they spin the circles so made.