The Superior Intellect

None of the laiety could protect, their little martyr. Thanksgiving leftovers were the thing, and there was none to be had but frozen whatever. Family that grand illusion where we hit the mark but never say our lines.

They have aged a bit...

Perhaps foreboding of the cost of my attention slipped when last I held them healthy. But a fool perchance to pray for something better than this waiting for whatever comes.

I'm tired you know...

The rims that hold the drum are cracked for prayers long unanswered, and my hand may yet release the reign that keeps the hound named time away.

Poverty for my thoughts...

No prizes for "superior" anything, and curses for intellect. A fool would count his blessings and be done that all went well.

But I remain to tell.