The decrepit hour

February 24, 2013

The decrepit hour

Strands of gray light call forth the feeble hour. Who remembers now his infant dawn, descending upon a frame of thought? To awaken instinct with soil, to sleep in shrouds of dust, his youthful morning rising?

No innocence left, who shall draw the blade of Truth – decry nakedness, and sound retreat to leave an empty world of stone?

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