Taken from Figures

From the figures these equations suggest I am ill equipped to ascertain the agencies, let alone those orbits for whose lost bones I ache in quiet moments. Alone. The horses, riding the pages of time’s own books in shelves of sleep, noble heroes of a dream whose colors are precisely those before you, and thus remain unseen. Where lies the ratio of truth’s periodic resurrections, disguised as children or the lay of arbitrary fate arranging its linings like stars within our fevers? The ones we call come late, the the distances between us are minute, and thus require eternities to traverse.