An Ill-Defined Eternity

With this twisted, little constable you call a friend, You scatter fro to find the end, With open spaces left to fill, Imaginative canvas spills, Upon the ground in such a way, To satiate the calming sway of evergreens and frozen pines, Providing to your humble shrine, A gift of immortality, Stripped of its virility, 'Till seven days pass along the channels of your mind, You'll weep for such affinity...