scott-plain

September 6, 2024

The plain was dry and cold and covered in an icy sheet for there had been no sun in that place, no font of warmth, until one chimeric morning the sun first dawn above the distant hill and spanned the horizon line with its pallid and steaming glare illuminating the new cerulean firmament and below it the shades of the Earth came to life as if a brush were dragged over paper, a watercolor iconography captured across mossy stone.

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Thought:

“Witches and poets co-embrace like fate,

Reputed base, bare, poor, unfortunate.

In these respects I may myself intrude

Among the poets’ thickest multitude.

Here lies that poet, buried in the night,

Whose purse, men know it, was exceeding light.”

Henry Parrot | “Fatales Poetae”

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