At Chronos' raised browed <br />forelock, there won't and can't <br />be any detachment, no turning <br />back now, no, none whatsoever <br />at this crucial stage, no deviation <br />from paralysing stillness. <br /> <br /> <br />Unwavering high upon a windswept, <br />white clay precipice, his perspiring, <br />wrinkled forehead is keen with serenity <br />of the adventurous quest, squinting <br />eyes focussed on the rosy skyline, <br />convinced to the core <br />this is the kairotic moment <br />to take a swift uplift of faith, <br />sentient that his viscera's aching <br />void might merely be surfeited <br />by the unfailing, defiant flames <br />in his feathery veins. <br /> <br /> <br />Adapted arms outstretched, <br />buoyed with soaring anticipation, <br />flight of fancy, fire
