What is this wicked waning then?
Where wonder once was found?
Featureless the fog unfolds,
For fear and foe to shroud.
Safety, sure and sabeline,
Seems sold on slight of hand.
Heavy hangs the helmeted;
Hell - heavens demand.
Difficult to divine it,
Doused in deep defeat.
Where is the wicked waxing then?
When I do not retreat?
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Comments1
'Safety, sure and sabeline,
Seems sold on slight of hand.'
Brilliant!
(how to question accountability
when we inherit a world
with its accounts, touched-up
since the dawn of thought...)
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