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Sitting upon sinisters, wise

Battle lines like rows of gems, threaded

Their scope of collision, conditioned

Want of flowered sage, deeper wells

To give an eye for an ear

Coloring speech and echoing sight

Lastly laughing

At the impossibility of drawing a rose

Your self found in

Crystal casts

A luminous dwelling

Shining, slaughtered cities on a hill

But sitting with scorpions

False boats cross fear bearing streams

Diminished forms

Radial swarms

Remnants of a ship wreck death

The ground heaved with fraught

Fire and gravel which yoke the passing chariot

Movement checked by muse, vicious

God’s brigade only governed those plains

Some like it hot and sullen

Crisised bardo

The best seats in an eschaton