Flying spiders, upright toads
Whimsical fairies, the mind implodes
Shadows flee or perhaps they chase
The sun that shines over such disgrace.
An open wound that drains disease –
Don’t Read My Mind If You Please!
Cotton stalks, the smell is rich
Of crosses hot and black flesh
Which will burn or hang if chosen by
White sheets tonight living high
The wind will carry through the leaves
Stories of old and dreams of these –
Hasten to capture the Truth of just one
Be wary of those who say there is none.