Beneath the fire lies the hearts
of falcons from the sky.
The laughing spring at midnight hides
the marble knight's reply.
The foolish error arrow shoots
a crisply lettered lie.
The landscape shouts into the wind
and whispers, silent, why.

Outside the sphere exist the spears
of Spartans long away.
The paper hand in shadow's weight
does crawl along the day.
The journal plain as unsound mind
is leaning in the fray.
The leather sighs of plaintive cries
in memories kept at bay.

Majestic is the beetle's womb
where all is not forgot.
The eye of many mountains in
a nightmare being sought.
The music of the garden in
the hands of merchants wrought.
The spiral disc of conscious void
where floats the orbit knot.

Cracked and green, brown and flat,
gives the living stone.
The black and simple velvet of
the blood in viking throne.
The angry fold of fortunes told
in jester's lowly moan.
The unbeliever in the roam
of trilling river lone.

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