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poem for pastors

die Berge sind sie leise Völker
ruhig mit reverance, im Awe
warum Sie immer der dort shivering Standplatz tun Sie
die einzelne zusammengeprgessene angehobene Faust und bereiten vor
Sitzen in seinem Schalthebel, der Ihren Tee wartet
folglich kann ich nicht
Material des Mondes
die Luft ist wie ein Schmetterling
steigender Mond hat die Sterne versteckt
meine Seele geht in den gorgeous Sachen plattiert

 



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