Deepen eyed and
flowing through despondent
like the winds that blew
from south to east.
It is from inward outward
flow, the truth north of south
is not below but above
one’s head and eyes
to the grandest star
despite the reckless
names and wretched faces
of promised peace and
hallowed fate. There is
no such thing of the kind.
There is only sorrow in the heart.
There is only praise for the lost taste
of the day. To the losing flavor and
sense of preservation. And to nothing
holy. Sacred fleets beneath sallow opine.
Disappear. Foliate not. Despondent
correspondent lost among the shills.
The wavery, overt blue hills stand down
before the storm. Stand down within
the eye, the calm all left to find
lost victories bound in
crimson time.
The victories of braver men
lost in the arctic dross
of history forgotten
and promise lost
and promise kept
the soul of man
to find.

The sacred key
is the god of all
things.

“G.O.A.T.” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.