Black Box - 2012/02/21

Wisps of the past in my minds eye
Depart until it then seems obscene
To fetch the storied night tremors
Reminding me of a road not so clean

Skulls of those damned crunch aloud
As I strut impervious to their toil
Was it talent or merely simple luck
That allowed me to avoid their foil

Adventures taken are stories forgot
Apparitions sentenced to suspension
Though pretending we have no stories
Shall not silence unerring retention

Marbles strewn awry inside is a mess
Sum of the parts less than the whole
What is the magic that makes it tick
Or is it mechanical without any soul

In the hollows of the oncoming night
These are the sick harpies beckoning
One to choose between that emptiness
Or lie to delay inevitable reckoning

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