At Chronos' raised browed
forelock, there won't and can't
be any detachment, no turning
back now, no, none whatsoever
at this crucial stage, no deviation
from paralysing stillness.
Unwavering high upon a windswept,
white clay precipice, his perspiring,
wrinkled forehead is keen with serenity
of the adventurous quest, squinting
eyes focussed on the rosy skyline,
convinced to the core
this is the kairotic moment
to take a swift uplift of faith,
sentient that his viscera's aching
void might merely be surfeited
by the unfailing, defiant flames
in his feathery veins.
Adapted arms outstretched,
buoyed with soaring anticipation,
flight of fancy, fire
