Kevin Taylor

Veni. Vidi. Scripsi.


Dark and hurried skies, forewarning end to all as sure as night the day; bodies heaped, bone to dust, ash of fallen prayer amounting in still, now silent ruins.

Beings of abandoned cause, broken, dulled, awaiting eagles sent, gone a thousand years, here now returned; floating down a thousand skies to tell the way.

From ever endless skies, shall we, at our arrival, our return, rejoicing, ask wisely (O so wisely), “Who knew?” and know and laugh again?
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