Hanged Man

A sand weight walking in a noon Slumber stutter and sun moon fiasco Lit morning and walking in shrill Not many come keeping away the judge As finally roaming as a sand world casted The REM moods of inside mettle And the sandman scoops for noontime Abreast be less full of oneself Hushing those whispers by a bent elbow brush The trees escaping into blue Yet the furnishings swooping the mystique Varied by the dreamscape so flash The moon tearing, the sun flaring Upside down in the gases of apocalypse Cunning the steady swoop of the pendulum Clipping the utterances of a Latin hazard slay