The rocks porous as the future they are assured to reside in; no such prizes before the eyes of mortals
White as the hem of the foldless and faultless kalasiris of sisterwife to Osiris gullwinged beetless Isis
Green as languedoc his liegely skin, his leagues are Elysian before the phrase is cradled
Where his brain resides that very able sable cave more than a ladle sip of the well of knowledge
At the crest of a crag like a wave dragged to land and dressed in stone, white as bone from flaying winds and what stubborn things can grow, grow alone
Immortals, immodest immoral foils to our mortal heroes fallen to impossible labours
We say they will save us, ride out in vain for us with glaives and raised sabres, crying havoc
In blood bathe us, they neither belike nor bewail us, with woes assail us to break the tedium of their ceaseless apathy
In truth hate us, will not obey us
Laugh loudly at the graven images we raise in praise of their brazen betterness.
Down at the beach the old struggle plays out
The void and the certain, the eye and the mouth
The good and the evil, the tide and the land
The gold and the lead, the salt and the sand
More pebbles than people who had lived, dead longer than alive
The dead do not long to be alive, rarely striving from graves to our realm of odd trials and strifes.
Alchemisland 
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