sycamore, eye and gut
a sapling springs from the eye of the storm
winged thing behead
budding breed form a seed or a nut
a stick no good a thorn
sturdy steed and ****
be as hard as wood

With eyes engorged
My senses surge
I found a thin place
Where triumph cowers in a visions range
As our worlds converge
There, plain as day
Where I swear I've seen your face
I kneel down to pray
But I can hardly say your name