Darkly burnt offerings made evident
by the steampipe burn
etched into 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.
[written july 2005 by tink]
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