Fabius Lind’s Days

A. Leyeles

1937

Fabius Lind’s days are running out in blood.
Red serpents of failures empty his veins.
In his head—white muddy stains. Confusion.
And a heavy load on his heart.
He could have . . .
He could have . . .
Gray spiderwebs of melancholy
Cover his mind, veil his eyes
And a strange taut bow
Aims at the tip of his nose.
Fabius Lind, sunk in contemplation,
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