by Oran Bailey
The valley lies in anticipation
for the pendulum swing of Saturn’s sickle—
the signal of his harvest.
The stench of summer’s corpse
clings to the golden wheat fields:
the stage where he will claim his charge
to feast upon.
His wary eyes search
for the one who would again make him
“dethroned and fugitive”.
He will never learn.
He will never change.
He jumps at the sound that will herald his end,
the rumble as you roll your stone up the hill.
And I picture you smiling
as those panicked jaws extend
to taste his freedom,
his immutable kingdom, crumbling
unknown to him
as I am plunged into everlasting darkness.
He will never learn.
He thinks he will never change.
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