Torn

In the face of the ideal impersonator, words are echos.
Sleeping pictures and scenes all alike, in a million frozen fragments.
Through the scarred palms of the leviathan, slips chaff that was once sweet breath.
A millennium passes every day, a legion of miles each step.
Mind and tears of ice evolve, to a grain of time boxed for the future.
It cowers silently in the distance, not daring to move the air.