The weekdays number end,
But I am in the sparseness of a time,
All measure sticks recede,
To flow opaque as fortress wine.

Severed shadows mastered masterless,
Splitting shades taste each opacity,
They come to six though truly one,
They move in sync though follow none,
More mute than rocks more deaf than trees,
And at the dimming lights I wonder if they're any less.

Blackened sand to sparkle in the waves,
The shadow's gold dust swarming,
A school of silver fish that line the bed,
Turn southward to escape the shore.

Deciphering the songs of old,
The songs the ancient circuits chirped,
They orate great myth and furious fight,
In square waves and jagged might.