are no golden palms and ancient arms of nature sacred? canyons and valleys under the keeper lune breathe though one breath lasts one hundred years and the pause before exhalation releases seas to the black coral shores of another ruined land where beasts conquered tearing spirit from sky raising tyranny like celebrity or a whore trying in vain to leave a legend though material does not follow the grave and it would be a mistake to assume one is bigger than the sum of parts much wilder than any archetype of man though wild imagination of early may have created a veil for we have cursed ourselves since ships bluntly carved paths through spring bay rains and mist rolling over white shoulders to establish and breed God and steel and steam and factory plumes staining wood hulls in the rivers veins now tarry graves anchoring stormy hearts to the bottom drowning spirits defeated with the knowledge they never had a chance to climb the spine of cloud-dusting totem poles slowly sucking youth and future children of technicolour undoing the great knowing and form through function
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