In society’s citadel, gold bars encrusted blood thickened sharp serrated dreadknot forked tongued arguments, resolve little of an astronomical sphere of influential deference to that which is. Tangles of grapevine tassels swirled in the maze of a forest on honey lacquer dew seeping to endless heavings of artful decayed flora, abundant in swallowed meadows on a tempest whim, evolve incarnate shadows that restore the un intended deed, that which we pronounce king of the sod gatherers bundle. Joy for refusal to die, the broken winged bluebird hops about, the tree’s heavy burden is the remembrance of the glooming, the desperation of the acknowledgement that reels in the tongue of the gate mouthed philosopher that knows of much but understands of little. I solve no mystery. I lean to the trunk and hang my head and am crushed by the leaf, the wolf waits hidden, in the thicket, the glory patch.- Sinz
