Time but stoops to wrap its fingers 'round the trigger and,
shoots a hundred thousand years.
and I,
shot blast,
somewhere in the distance and my present past,
am cast in stone.
A statue to atone,
misgivings I alone would know and
time,
time to show trajectory.
PnF
the directions all about and me.
And equally a
Parabola,
a crab upon the shore,
scuttling now but there is
more to come.