Whispered words these walls breathe the inanity of accusation
 And a moment of gifting passes through what once was identity
 In a movement beyond [bad word] and falsity I can sense them in the mountains
 On either side of every side
 Basking in the seething sun this flesh conjures the infinite mind
 While well worn pillars of objectivity collapse as if blown asunder
 By the blameless pawns of poets ecstatically exhuming treasures of forgotten grace
 The in-betweens surpassing their localities this grey disease reproducing
 The weapons forever unleashed stockpiled with lies of every kind
 There is a season a time to die
 And the word games end as the clock thunders by and the rain sears this pain
 As my streams [bad word] dry