Alway a moment too late, as we recollect the fading passion--that movement unnamed 'til then. But now 't is made whole, holy, concrete. A trophy stands to honor past.
There the momentary flay. Strip away the surface. Strip away the preserves grown stale. Draw forth an icon new but unused, one unable to stand alone, over us. Those legacies are not unto us but them. We are the bearers of a new dawn, a new break. Not schism but salvation. Not death but life.
See how they worship the glittering, golden present. A gift, no doubt, yet one beset by countless perils. Pandora's lesson goes unlearned, which comes not too surprising. This prize begs for presentiment, although it earns only will. There, there, do not despair. All has been been before, as vanities of vanities take root to tragic form.