There is a strand of imagination
made frozen and called time,
placed in a pool of darkness,
and a fog that makes it mine.
Taken with no grain of salt,
we call the past the past,
we never stray from the strand,
into the blackest mire.
Or did one swim across the void
into the solar light
from which our visions are made real,
and fiction is real too?
It told me to keep the strand,
and see the art it made;
to keep the dark for humankind,
but let some light shine through.
What is the fog composed of,
but funerals unfurled?
The truths that kill,
the lies that still
the hearts that beat in Time.