The shorter the history, the shorter

A thousand years went by, came out the same way.
You dig? I do. Did it yesterday? I am still, if I may,
finds my desire for peppadew cheese intact, grown
strongish from a dream, an early spring nap drawn.

There is an orb that crests under razor clouds. Ew!
The brown scab innocent within its safe grey circle
absent-mindlessly flickt with a pale sharp half-moon
surprised with a red trick right before bedtime pickt.

It was a dog, of course, on a dry path in rural Spain
waiting for the olive harvest, waiting for a master to
trust when the press come down. Waiting, as dogs do
wait, for smell things to pant about a pack that matters.

A thousand years went by, came out the same way.
Bloody sheets only half of the story aired at dawn
in vellum. A history lost under the palimpsest's ink
of blue scratched from ivory. Here be gorgons blood
and every scarlet newt is worth gold for breath again.

Somewhere under the royal blue a sweet thing walks
in spring, no small dog, maple early in expected red
buds, nothing new to report but it felt so fresh that
time the sidewalk watched again. It matters completely.

A thousand years went by, came out the same way.