Disks of tarnished silver made their advent over the bay, trailing their tatters of cloud remnants. And I believed. Oh, I believed. What has come?
I believe that I will rise the next morning. A fifth part of me will study the textbook of motion, be credulous of the day’s tumbling numerals. The dots on the dice of chance.
No ripping fireworks spitting light.
No carnal carrion to evidence a fight.
Poets starving, children bleed.
All for what?
An assassin’s creed?
