Quantus Interruptus

Under slumber, sparks scatter not to be glared upon, wandered with, or wound without. Within one focus of the days' gaze, fix'to this point or that, always singing spots found'r forever midway toward mortality. Forget Zeno's, best back to Poe's, to blurry scurr'ing sparks in dark, his slices of death, the sleep he so loathed - What not dug from those streams, but believed in each, is there is no destiny, but alone foreboding and'r lust, neither here nor there.