... Poem by athena bell

Have this in your hand
your smoky screened
vest of streams
wet with wonder land
the great tears of books
broken when the clock
struck nine, and then did
spook the sea.
I want this caption of yours
which the old do behold
as the salvation to their tired
losing fiends, To kill this
wood and drink
the juices of the black
stool
stool
to sit on this one way
is to sit with pit on your
spit which is wet some day
Let's eat with scorn
but no one red with
beds of lead
can read the capting
schools of the dead