The die is cast in a cathedral of
Loam; the principality of error
Grunts a jovial truce that bumps
Power against soil; whether you
See whole depends on what invades
Your vision: the trim or the cut.
Here then is my song at your
Feet; the repetition of revision
Will attempt to steal a whisper,
The jacket of mist collating the
Vagaries of form with the wish of
Opened soil and undead proddings.