The Will of Jacob.
The Tortoise and the Hare, the Man and the Angel.
Find me under an old oak tree exhausted of might,
abed on green fields wrapped in the deathless night.
My heart beats in time with a carriage clock,
sitting atop a rock,
on a dark, distant shore.
The water ripples and thunder creeps,
and in white flashes the light peeps.
Sleeping silently under the leafy tresses of nature’s great bastion,
my soul continues its desperate vigil,
clutching onto a victory sigil.
The distant shore’s shimmering waters become aroused,
shaken by paroxysms of lightning so powerful they cannot be doused.
Steadily the storm slinks towards the shore,
my spirit’s susurrations quickening evermore.
A litany of silent screams are summoned around the rock,
pleading the thunderclouds to flock.
In a faded vision, the lightning will strike,
driven through the clock like a pike.
Flames will tear it asunder,
as my future begins its baptism of fire and thunder.
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