The days did draw in ruffled coil
around the vision spent,
and huddled close to memory’s hem;
in bloated, bloused lament.
Through dusted scuff of muddled mind,
they brushed on truth’s dry soil,
and shuddered lint and broken thread;
the past so soon defiled.
Belief had dressed the distant times,
as ragged, frayed and worn,
to cast the image full depressed;
a victim surely born.
But thoughts are sent to service mind,
not dictate what must be,
and in the choosing we can know;
birth new realities.