4.

 

I speak these words directly into his yawn

 

Open cave of

his dark almost kind

of fire-lit mouth

 

 

And the shadows there my words form these shadows

In the back of the hero's throat

 

A world we applaud where chained to the ground

We watch the trees walk past us. There are other ways to describe the year:

 

Seasons of

The hero's boredom.

 

 

5.

 

Where the horror is comparison, honor sees

Hands in the trees instead of leaves-

 

Honesty asks why the applause is so quiet

When the wind blows so hard-

 

Breath is the atmosphere at utmost extreme

Where the lungs are flowers-thought the dew-

 

The sun doubts everything, a general statement

In whose light the hero sees these helpless things

 

Beg mercy, beg darkness for obscurity-

We do not comprehend the awe, it comprehends us-

 

When leaves fold in halves they look sleepy

Like eyes, but these eyes are fists