Ding, ding,

Ding, ding

ding

One step to

one step froe

backwards and forwards

things go, and they

are spreading across

the thin world

with nary a finger

placed

Ding, ding,

ding, ding ,

ding

Stars gleam min

an opal sky with

a in other preached on

their side, but the

subtle light rising

confused many

Ding, ding,

ding, ding

ding

Hands rise in

the east, strolling

into the sky and

gorging on the land

left vacant for

the stars, burning

it with its power light

and drinking the melting

embers for the

stirring ground

Stitched in the sky

the stars are being

enveloped

with the grasp of

many a hand,

taking burning stars

down from a tapestry

and forging them into

gold,

seams are broken

and a tapestry left

tattered

with nary a

star left to

shine

but still some

to brighten the

day

Hands of many

a color and texture

decend down into the

towering mirrors and

gleaning waters of

their homage, and

see the sleek world

they live without modern

necessities, their water

perfect and food

pure but nothing

can substitute the

be have lost

, and the hands

watch the crystal

water and towering

glass

with a twitching finger

and burning palm

feeling cold

Ding, ding,

ding, ding

ding

In light of

the hands a

fabric shredded by

brutal fury and

tainted by the smell

of mountain bliss,

gone deep in a burrow

the smell tangles

in the fabric

with retching sounds

of a ground

unbound,

but a bliss is

bliss and mountains

rise into our

floundering hearts with

probing incision and

a bliss

a different

A hand reaches

toward the homage,

burning with the

cold

of their

eyes

and griping their

stolen stars with

their callused hands:

russet, chagrin, and

ancient folly center

a hand so

nimble and quaint

and bare of

clothes

it's rich with

lumber and

coal

Fabric flaps in

the somber wind,

trailing with the

fragments of

stars

muted and tender

in the arms

light,

fragments and clots

and scattered alone

smeared across the

open sky, and distant

with the voice

of wind and eye

of fire,

late with the

walking but walking

through the holes

into a stalagmite

world- sparkling

and glistening and

smooth with every

touch but arched into

the tattered tapestry

with damp thorns

and limp roots

scattered across

the glass land

a virgin waters,

dots trembling on

a tear, fabric

dancing with birth

and surrender

dots feeling

one eye and

one rock

and standing there

to be

gone

Ding, ding

ding, ding

ding

Stars of whole,

stitched into their

folds

and patches

and tilted to

see the shine

below,

watching the sheen

cast into their

eyes and feeling

the cold blowing

from the bowing flames,

charring the glass

and freezing the

wind

with their hands

and touching a

transparent ground,

clutching a broken star,

and shivering in the

burning air;

the stars stay

there

and see other places

on a large horizon

all empty,

all alive,

and all

bodies

Caught in the

grasp of a

hand,

a broken star

whispers

and be well,

well with tears

and well with

bites

In an iron

grasp, a whole

star be dead

and still and

well with

flowers and mud,

well with

clarity and nary

frication

when with

a whole and devoured

chocolate,

bitten into the center

and melting into

a gas,

and well with

a suitable case

to be locked

away

from a grasp of

gold and coal

but open for

them too

Tendrils of fabric

cascade to the glass,

littering all with

fragments of

warmth,

the torn stars

can watch their

ken from

afar a watch

themselves through

the sheen,

watch the

gold forge through

a shivering dot,

watch the hand

close tight,

and the mountain

bliss

taints the fabric

on glass and

in tapestry, and

in a world

alone

Ding, ding

ding, ding

ding

So bare with

things, the hands

touch the graven

stars for what

they starve

and for what

they know,

but the burning

cold does only

to

bruise their rough

palms, and the

clutch to stifle

the golden light

in their resting

want, a homage

with glitters and glistens

and without smiles

touches them as

beauty with

pork eyes,

and the stars

there aren't stars

but frozen

dreams

saught to be

diamond and gold

Arms, legs, fingers

toes and abdomens

are stretched in

other lands

for stars to

gaze

and people to

know,

but are with

other places

without a head

an eye

to see the something

near and

something far;

the whole stars are

drooping into the day

sky,

their light vague

and inconsistent

with the gleaming

world, and virgin

waters,

a tapestry tattered

breaks away into

the sheen and glass-

catching on crystals and

shattering into fire

where nothing is

blazing and the

stars are

done

Ding, ding

ding, ding

ding

Carful with the

care of time,

the hands take

the broken stars

of golden part

and open their grasp

to see nothing

there,

and look towards

the tapestry to

find nothing but

fragments

and a dearth

world

looking at the

fragments and cannot

stop to find

another and

looks into them

without word

without thought

without action

and watches

what they

do

Seam are breaking

and cloth is becoming

limp,

light is adamant

on speaking none

fractured pieces

wonder a divided

place and

have the eye

stricken to

them, seeing between

their broken light

and severed

infinities,

seeing them wonder

down the path

into the sheen

shivering in

cold,

fading away

and feeling

the last eyes

watch before

they bleed a

rooten sight of

world exploding

and star

falling

Ding, dong

the thing

be gone

And hast the

night so weather ken

keep the keen out

and never

in