Lapped at by the coursing mirrored-sky.
Their lines stretch finite.
The rails run.
The final days of Nefertiti’s childhood.
Pigeon plays his puff-chest charm.
I write; I drink; I’m passed through.
Whate’er shall I write next?
Verdant-vivid is the tall grass.
Th’waste rain-fall flows, fitfully free, unto sea o’er reams of language earth-born.
Flame-flick’ring fire of th’ancient dragon’s tongue callcries – Cymraeg! – o’er where the riverrun writes sediment’ry.
In sea-salt-sandy steps.
Inscribe upon those scrolls, your stylus dipped in deathless ink, the ‘glyphs I’ve gathered swiftly for to fend off time!