Ophiodon

Upon the infinite reaches of this eternal branch perched,

gazes slant across the ruins of an ancient age.

Permanence of emperors and gods,

sweeping across time’s forgetful visage,

unaware they are of the same who fell before.

From antiquity to futures unforeseen,

nestled in the dark bosom of a chasm unabridged,

hope lies in wait, coiled with its twin viper: despair.

Carvings in stone, worn thin by time’s passing,

another token of that which is lost,

that which will rise again.

Mortal craft cannot bind the passage of time.

They are small reminders for which to scoff at.

That which has been will become new again,

neglectful of the truth it inherits.

Nothing is real, this life, an illusion,

a marker, which fails to point the way.

Fated to always repeat the same,

such is truth, a cycle of life,

slowly decaying as it begins anew.

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