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In the count of threes the crows come out, please
of hands and held regards gallantly teeming to seize.
Of naught desires and crippled lung fortitude,
castigated until castrated doth cause vine attitude.

And let loose the vines upon those still home
Whom cannot stand, let alone climb the whisper dome
Hands held, regards to the postmarked sensuality
One would suppose to be contrived of a certain modality

The scarring of ships The land once hoed
Now sleeps unabated with simple dreams of whether to explode
or rather to concave into the valley of unforgivable calvary
while mountains are streaming, screaming for their calvery.

welcome home, slid the snake, up to the leaves
this was once lost but now apos;twas found
and shall we make up our found leaps and bounds?
or may we become once more a length of the ground.
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