Saga

He was stiff as a ramrod,

when he heard me to write.

I was in front of him

as stiff modeling clay,

I do not bow to any

the new form without

violence. my inside

interfere seasons

to each other like lost

octopus tentacles.

Memories of threads weave

manila rope along which

flee to knock at

utopia door. throb

the knuckles of shedding your blood unless

one puts in.

The dragon awaits

there anxiously

me. We do not need

knights to subdue the free

the joint flight, wonder of the above.