The selfproclaimed king
Hoisted on this mound
Which is
As beautiful and tender
Breast of venus alike

All alone being up there
Is blasting his salvos
Into an empire of imagination
Truth to behold

Antlike creatures are scaling
Taking elevations then sliding

The mound is eroding
Its tenderness its hillsides
Dark and grey do we find

It turns into a spike
Creatures are falling
Taking with them the dirt

The spike becomes a needle
Only feared when its pointed
Let it lay down
Go back to the dirt

Imaginations become real
And the earth awakens
Once again

(c)flatfielder