To The Highlands Poem by Peter S. Quinn

The dismantled earth is our only through street
With night of night fool's gold turning camber
Filled with the brows of yellow threads amber
The bride's jewels of assembled godly treat
Doors that were opened are waiting to be closed
Divided and spattered by vultures ritual
Songs of wheels that anguish the habitual
With voices throughout highlands ghosts imposed

Carnage muddy plated her garments now are
The martyrdom day has given its night
The flow of the river has dried to earth's scar
And each stream of its pearly mirror light

Oh come here again my merry-go-round
For nowhere else your pleasures have I found