Of the things under the sun beseeching

  the sound of the windscrews abhorrent at best

the kaleidoscopic instances of suffused memoriam

                     of abstract creatures within and without


  One eye open, because there will never be another.

The Captain remembers the why

          Rising, stumbling, raising his alchemy to the sky

remembrance of the raven, rabbit, even the lion

they had to burn upon the pyre

"Take wheat and barley, ghosts or gods, millet and spelt; put them in a storage jar made of felt."

  And although everything has not been seen nor done.

"I will not be the last one".


Something something drabble-side... I'll challenge with antirevolutionist