Pressed stripes of glossy grain
Against the beaten yellow, wind
Around in nature's pattern slow,
As pencils scar the dead.
Poor kings grow wide and old,
Age crowns them giants who
Attempt to brush the clouds
And smile to bodhisattvas up.
Pilfered of their hands and feet
A growl of metal teeth tears
Apart the crying bark while
Ants scatter, squish and
Purple frogs die in the sun.
