Much too much has been made of this dupe known as time.
For I’ve known him to be a mere dullard.
A clod of halting seconds and mute divisions,
outpaced by numbering academicians, who
once played the coxcombed fool to leery kings.
An abstraction horribly aloof in the flesh.
An angel of being who wished to be human,
only to find himself helplessly lost
in an unangelic order. A barren twig
on a stunted branch. A distended appendix
to Eden’s threadbare genealogy,
inked out like some poor bastard of the Romanov's,
never to muddy the stagnating pool with such
as is meet only for the legioned gods,
who’ve met their untimely, unaccoladed ends.
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