Where The Millennia Have Little Use

On some mountain where my sight
Cannot be hindered
Find me resting till this tale of mine unfolds.
I’ll play the part well, an old fool from
An intentioned life of shiftless nature.

An old fool who remembers not at all clearly
Reasons for his resting, the confluence of others;
Such things which burned away
So slowly like the Summer’s End fog
From a cool day’s warming.

An old fool resting afar where the millennia
Have little use for the changing nature
Of all that is human, someone please
Find me, paint a scene by way of my mind’s eye.

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