These mallard faces do not last
Like frozen pollards they gleam with hope
Iced in fading memories which
Desert them at record pace.
They rise in number
Thousands of famished black pea eyes
Who foolishly assume numbers could defeat
The fury of Time herself.
I collect their imperfections
In a boggled memory bank, burdened by
Graven stones and decaying tomb scripts.
Here we rot together, in a deserted sand yard.
Naivety reigns here,
Our soul eyes are drained of their purity, revealing
We are mere protective glass sheets
Whose demise has been preordained.
They come for us
No pit of shadow to crawl into
The insanity of it all
Is revealed in a single crack, forever and now, we pray.
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