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Bed of Many Signatures
A throne behind five thunders
Hanging, screaming domes of gold
Commanding stomps and wooden sticks
Demanding wits and hands to muffle
Flesh like men, so granted tones
Wood of trees all cylinder craft
The biting left to the singing right
Whispers felt from sole to chest
Deafened heart that's blinding quick
Building force behind his casings
Lips to utter and hands to scry
A rhythm skewed but not forgotten
The carrier kit, the sunset stack
The vehicle to the brazen truth
So frank and short in its departure
Enlightening in its pursuit.
