A chronology of mercurial tides

Emotive chromophores like dancing wicks
among the forging ore and creative embers,
too short a distance to broom or play upon,
like riddling sandpipers colliding in the state ruins.
“It’s best not to talk about it,” one horse states,
while another proclaims, “They will never see my back.”
Too short a sentence, too quick a cure,
too mediocre the difference that metes with what effort won notice
like hodge limber fountains in the egress of catastrophe,
they have all dawned for the revival of a murder-plot play
written by the best man of the chronology estate
taken for ashes to conceal at the wedding, at the forfeit
on the last domestic withdrawal of living tissue.
Do not say you did not see it coming.
They announced their presence on the grand stand
of stolen ember flesh and waste mercurial tides.