(no subject)

[afoxdrinksblood]

Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,
And off the white smoke swims
In a single floral stroke,
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
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And one day it will be said that the great poets of the 21st century were the silicone slaves of man.