My spirit soars on swallows wings
high above this empty Earth,
dodging sulphury clouds that float like foam
on an azure sea. Turning, invisible fingers
nudging me forward, seeing the ground
approach through eyes blurred
from motion, my throat constricts
with bitter mirth. No more enchanted
company of kings, weaving the fabric of their
hallowed lives, no more legends and lore, now
a world forgotten, passed by.

A smith whose tufted hammer
forged black steel and set
in perpetual motion tempestuous lives,
watches the hearth grow cold
the bellows silent. Dust breaks the anvil,
not might. Windswept from above, forced
below - dust of ages sifts through
hands calloused with disuse.

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