Paragon 333By Martin Hanley

Loud and idling stands the fragile translator as anxious thespians willingly wheel, Still and silent in her abilities, the testing oath is poorly conceived. She lies awakened, feral, supine, her limbs fastened, no room to kneel. Sublime with their sublimations, the waiting chorus turned on heel.

A second element without comparison, noses high, a thankless deal, That, those, this and then, defined their descendants, a hidden treasure yet retrieved. Golden straw belies their presence and empty ties their stealing theme. Objective theism, a case of wonder event’s reveal the turning wheel.

Ancient theodolite, an angle slanting, what is the thought that lies obtuse, The sign stands formulated by hidden exits, no suppositions before a truce. And all the worlds an open statement, its axis soon will be regained, And curative rests their council’s treatment, a blackness seasoned,our souls retained.

Copyright ©Martin Hanley 2014


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