Valley of the Dry Bones

Autumn footfall in a glimpsed atom of hues, evening rolls its eyeball backward to dusk, an overwhelming question mark upended, pressing broad scythe against a slow atlas,

DNA rewombs its spinning homunculus, the final sigh reverses upon a thin trajectory,

They lie in pocks of tinder and then dance in ceaseless spectacle, shooting comets gathered into the maw of Nibiru, precious gold flecks slowly gathered back, the gauzy mud obscures, then dropped from pan to riverbed, settling again in their primordial strews,

Bygones are there toasted, poured from mouth to glass, oaken barrel inhales, releases its spigot, revelries gush to lung and bawl from bruised heel to swaddling cradle, leathern brown sighs its youth in softs of pink,

For you and for me, there is time, but for those in the utterance of mythos, beneath the wizards palm, jigsaw glass lifts its continents in liquid unity, back toward antiquities of Pangaea