There are stars that never rise or fall
offering ample cover from the trickster
gamboling the rushes with a tambourine,
the percussive cymbals in three degrees.
The dimple deepens with the curling smirk
for the dying kings swallowed by darkness,
black holes patient for every random star,
tangerine sunsets after the harvest.

Ouroboros shrinks into quarks abuzz
regardless of amber snapshots of gist
and the painted minstrel marks the folly
of the crouching predator in plain view.
The jester clutches madness as the only
answer since the prey only prolongs fate,
always snipping at beleaguered fare
not sussing that hope is also genetic.

*[ WSB ]_.