These colours don't run
they bleed --
into the days
beyond times regressed.

Oft times behind,
altogether forward
looking and rife
with the fusion
of brisk diminution.

The hills lived lives of
moles and giants;
forgotten only by the
dreg worms
that squealed

in the fleshy mass
of felled men.

Some way they turn to
see the face of the raven,
and to know
moreover
that the eyes they see
are the orbital
spheroids

of sudden devolving
angular gesture.

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