TheDreamsOfThree

My hand, my fate, outstretched towards the sun. Legs bent as tools, of dolls and men, immobile, both parts to part amongst lands of soil and stone. A creek in craft of whispered tongue, my tale to sail in slowest journey... a home of frequents, elemental. A home of languid slumber. To take in taken dreams, twin voices of sight and sound, with age, with wisdom, with finality to finally dream. In four riddles to lengthen time, my hand no longer brief, recoiled... three clocks in time to time unwound, two visions bound, one man in gray, a man amongst, one man against the hour.