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A golden brilliance in broken bowls

Their beauty a garment of God

What does that matter for truth

Independence etched from disobedience

Yet an interpretation of those shadows

With eye ruined by salty wounds

Is bound to hopeless love

Phantoms demarcated by duty

The spray of the wind from the west

Captures as amulets rolled back

Down to the unspoilt land

Innocent rustics polish the residue of hard work

They glance at heaven with more ease

The man with the interrupting face

Agency lost to

A piece of Arcadian land

There I am with quiet pleasures

Associated from inhibition removed from

Memory

Through a sleeping mouth

A dark seed coughed

A pit that threatens to gaze back

Embellished by the serpent with an

Induced torrent to move

Ascension

Atop the quivering mosaic of grime

The perfection of death billows through

Sweet grasses