A coalescence to archaic idiom
Pipers of a solemn source longing for icons of yore…of distant dirges,
pangs spin freely midst arboreal shrouded mass
And though, many blinking men remain at the cusp
The sacraments of salvation are sprawling
And lauded is the dominion with precise jurisdiction
and the monolith of power breaks with trauma and scars
time is but the wellspring of pain – lost twixt adolescence and death
assuage my memory
soothe me in the end
yet, rest here until then
