Light, midnight,
On moorlands, summoning fate,
Alone, viceroys break
Every pretty tear that rises
And carries wind in lone summoning fate.
As scars gleam in twinkling nightfall, as they fall to rest
Upon trees, a thousand feet, that dance in sunlight,
And worshipped on a pretty brow, bends the river-way
And worshipped on pallid rests,
In lone summoning fate
Over a pure green sea that wounds flicker
Where they lay on agony, her weeping, her crying
Rivers in thousands of darkened wanton valleys
Exploded into the little millstones share
The dawn of fiery cactuses,
Onto freedom long enough to dance on broken flames.
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Pseudopsychosis. 