Morning Berry

in the wet shamans garden a budeful pass places the moist taste of a berry worn in it's tougen bush lasting in the shade of dawns break a soft prick from a thorn dances through the poor mans hand as the common growth withers there claim the spout of a smiling flower spikes him dead the mass of the horizon shows the play back of a cowards tale muck the it's rising the fields perish now the death has not passed it's bright the shamans sing to his dead mans calling with the suns heart shining and beating like a drum the liking of his wounded parry evegant breath drowns the man in vein