By Matt Praxmarer

At once the mountains play in streams, sand a
Sudden side effect of Aphrodite foam, black slick underneath
Hasty crafted of the single stumbling old lizard…

Leaves a shade falling somewhere around green and void,
The ape perhaps a more playful breed of us…

Those glories seem a little vain,
Each gray mattered Adam all deceptively to blame,
For endings less spectacular than lame.

Dark ages,
Only Blinks.