Friday, March 27, 2015
There is no coverage of the overgrown,
They recline and taste on the toiling tails
With energetic qualms and perpetual gloom,
With visions after visions of the blind heart.
They destroy a century of findings in one
Glorious battle, too finite for the extra charge.
I cover the beds with stale news so energetic,
A cutting is made by a blade so sacred,
Its tip is of the mountainous areas
And the hilt is like an axe so golden and promising.
There with the senses
Behind a transparent screen
Is housed a house of the homes
Inside some nests that grow like asps,
Those beasts so fearless in the hells;
I cover the bedrock on top of which
Reigns the soil so majestic, august.
Topic(s) of this poem: growth