Days

each and every passing day
a hundred billion verses are spun
like threaded gold, flaxen and fay
mystic notions as old as the sun

of spritely spirits new and glowing
of ethereal flights of impish fashion
of unsightly ghouls ghastly moaning
and chthonic bubbles of muted passion

only a thousand take any form
from the jealous jaws of Chaos torn

seeds of esprit, reliefs of regret
a pool of tears and blood and sweat
a futile rebellion on Time's void
a crumbling carving of words employed

only a hundred ever find name
reverie's tangled jungle made tame

writing proofs of living souls
writhing and wracked upon shoals
fleeting flickers in the cosmic Night
hoping and yearning with timid light

only a handful are thus sown
and only this one is my own

sparse evidence I was once here
journaling my emotive exhaust:
a bible of my loves and fears
testament that I am not quite Lost