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But my red carriage rolls its trundling way / beneath the glare of that auroral show, its flakes of rust conceding time’s betray, / the toll imposed on Adam’s clay in slow / extraction of deep veins of anthracite.
The work that's held my undivided heart now hangs upon the lip of the inane, a path I've struck, unwinding meaning's ball, or else a futile tangle, every day more lost to telos, purpose and design. No one else seems to have passed this way.