mind calisthenics

tales of a fading boldness from time gone by
were dripped on the walls by wax,
a methodical script with mentions of
angels and likewise their descending counterparts.
while each depictions did their duty
and gave forth truth to all portraits involved,
it would not be unfair to assume that
by the very act of turning to history
a virile, shifting creature, there becomes
wholly something amiss.
now the candle-clad scribe must
decide if there is justness in memory and forgetfulness,
or the mute realization that nothing can even be
the way that it once was.

written in my notebook
in my own terrible version of cursive
it was sort of an exercise in futility, really
because i have no idea why i wrote this