Those cold hands
are manufactured
Of some departed us
From where
the unwisdom calls
the crowning
from below
From where the sun comes up
to speak to you
without shame
Random syllables of sanity from my subterranean barometric life
Those cold hands
are manufactured
Of some departed us
From where
the unwisdom calls
the crowning
from below
From where the sun comes up
to speak to you
without shame