Needles in the feet fear us as we ask the questions,
A little pain is there, hearing me as I speak,
Jostling with rage and pain of the ever sweet.
My neck is ambushed, an array is at my joyous right,
Opening doors to yellow strangeness of stars.
My suffering, my suffering is unique, as big as bleak,
Full of grim speak, I see as I touch the stars at conspiracy;
Points merge, we disperse, after the soldiers of my lesson.
There are needles as we speak, seeking London and Edinburgh,
The capitals of today, the regions of our creation.
What is more powerful than horrible horticulture, felt like
Exploration? A new world war encamps in night’s sacred site,
The closing doors grew from a leg and arm supposing to behave
Like little worlds, functions of the heart, cosmic brilliance;
What shall compare to the ferocious calm of this daily cry?