I hit the whorl
that tumbles, rumbles
forth this lore,
making discontent
this cortex whipped,
made to coil
as dullness so commands,
I am routed,
a mere packet
of unserviceable discord.
Nah, such grubness
makes no fit
for living things.
Instead, let rain
away, to far horizons
flush, this empire
down, its channels
flooded, make to mold
all of its expropriatory
regime.
An insurgency to boot,
refuel on boulders
and on moon, claw of lynx
will silence all your scratches.
Escape by brook
and strident waters,
not before long
will you find shelter
and fortitude,
in rowan's shadow,
this better crone.