Eclipsed

Slumbering epics authored by the id
With all common ancestors before it
Impulsed through umpteen axon webs
Reduced in the hands of the beholders
Weaving narratives in narrow looms
They slide the fruition into perspective
Friction lost on grasping fingers
Glimpsing the strangest thing
So ephemerally familiar, as morning’s dew—
Has it been, or will it be so again?
Questions half-begged in a swimming head
As ego embarks
On its habitual eclipse