if words were hours, years
of harnessed truth
(one or three or five or none)
and we were, set in the leathers,
bracing always forward,
leaning into the time as of yet
(the windkings bellow),
straining with an honorable groan
as we sidestep the fates themselves,
a fragile faithful gesture
(the noble intent is fast and bold,
brave and blind and buoyant),
an aeon of a moment, untold.
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