ECHOES FROM THE LOST DAYS - SULPHUR

hang the frame above the remnants of a doorway
what appears to have once been an image of a field
colors faded with time, marks scratched into it signifying
the directions toward the arms of the halo ring suspended
ephemerally out of reach
untouchable, intangible
seen only with eyes naked to sight itself
a shimmering hint, glimmering nugget among
the latticework of fingers woven intricately over the fabric
leathery blanket to hide the book
leeches seeking sustenance from the quizzical quilt
sucking the ichor from the oozing wound like a true parasite
an inferno hidden in the depths of inky sea
a self-contained bubble writhing with tentacles
an oasis of its own kind amidst the ruins
the whistle of the nonexistent wind whistling with no apparent source
as it rushes through the cracks in the rocks that never existed
tearing reality asunder with its own paradoxical lie
primordial gold running along the tracks of the eternal orichalcum
ties singed from the endothermic fire that burns downside-up
time neatly contained in a small cardboard box tied to the rafters
dangling aimlessly through the air as if an apathetic trapeze artist
nowhere to go and with no time at all
flowing effortlessly forward without any recognition of what may be
thick, vitrolic fluid pouring from the eyes of the god of oblivion
corroding the face of he who has power over nothing
he who was born into godhood without any deitic abilities
who stared like a junkie at reality with naught an idea
adrift in space, seeing all but unable to do anything
an immortal, immobile bird perched on the highest mountain
gazing at all that happens with his foul, blackened sockets
of where eyes used to be