|
Toward the leaves |
|
Scattered brushed |
|
Long brown leadened |
|
Swirl of haze trodden |
|
The spring garden |
|
Merges with |
|
Merges down |
|
With the forgotten |
|
Flowers. Fawn, shadows mere |
|
On a puppet horizon |
|
We want that lion |
|
On our skin |
|
The best of the set we think we've gotten |
|
As if we possess |
|
That we would rise |
|
To a Master's height |
|
A worse sublime |
|
When the tattooist claws in |
|
And starts his trace |
|
We grimacing and cry "foul" |
|
Flowered forn, shadows, mere |
|
On a puppet horizon |
|
We want that lion |
|
On our skin |
|
The best of the set we think we've gotten |
|
Save only the lion's tail |
|
The pain of imprint not what we thought |
|
The lion safe from knotted claws |
|
Is not what we've forgotten |
|
Towards that wall |
|
Of scattered brush |
|
Long and proud |
|
Forgotten |
|
Swirl of haze |
|
Swirl of trust |
|
The spring garden |
|
That we've trodden |
|
Flower, forna, shadows mere |
|
On a puppet horizon |
|
We want that lion traced on our skin |
|
The best of set we think we've gotten |
