Incantation #7

Spin the cartwheels of the dead. 

Extend your hands and wrap your minds around
and send them on their way.

Stir sacrilege and tribute.

Carry forward the unfettered, lose your
grip on the grinding halt. 

Cycles barrel on ahead. 

Spare the mirror just a glance to pace
yourself and map the wake.

Feigned sleepers won't be left back.

Horizons surge to draw them in, borne
helpless on the breaking crest. 

Don't take the bait from behind.

What might have been was never. Reality
is losing patience.

Time has not forgotten you.

No haven among the living is
passed over as he rolls.

Spin the cartwheels of the dead.