The shining black snake,
monster of dimension’s loss,
tattooed with roman numerals of molten gold,
perfect in place, fluid and immaculate;
you are what you eat,
he devours time mercilessly,
it’s influence on the mind,
drifts ethereal,
whispering from the grasp of thought’s illicit and invisible hand.
The hour glass drips tears of fire,
flaring bright and disappearing without a trace of their presence,
the glass topples as the snake slithers past,
a three dimensional depiction of a twisted figure eight,
now lays upon my canvas...
we have only interpretations of breath;
within the stasis of our time.
©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author
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