in 12 ancient tomes is kept
your yore,
with pages blank and
pages scrawled with tears
(salt-edged persipiration from one
thousand toils),
ink bled through in
a chemical reaction of
struggle with parchment
to create lines fine enough
to be seen as beautiful.

There are no lines but those
of the author and she
writes with a sagging fer-
ocity.

Her toil is mirrored in the
Eyes of others and the
Smiting of thousands.
Sun sets on the spokes of
Wheels meant to carry her to
The library of tomes,
But they cease their revolutions.