The Deep Sounds,
how depth has brought a Nation to where the Mountain is as the sand in a Read,
the Whistles are the People whom knew the word We,
a desperate cry in the distance,
a horse, a bridge, an ability.
There amongst the Clouds the Hands and the Saws,
stood the American Indian robbed of their Works as the American gave nothing to the Scribes of distance.
I have brought to the White House a building of nothing more than a fire,
surrounded in the flame is the memory of the Ones that knew,
life was more that word after!!
To state to the Singers is to stitch Them in Times,
you have dismissed a guise created a god that in entity has left more than a word,
he left the People a verb, an announcement, a memory, a known.
The Scribe in Worth,
the Privacy of just Me, a girl that states to All, you are who you’ve been,
your body full of distance,
your dates known by an Entity of roam!!
You counter a wealth to many and yet you know none,
your religions are Legion,
your ice is topped,
the snow of your Caps is sized.
How balanced an Earth of rounds,
in there the Moons of bay are sounds to I,
what of the Ones that knew?
There just a Fluke, a Drain, a Friend, a Hand,
the Horse has Sat!
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