BRUNK HOWARD

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land of the forest

I'm looking for the land of the forest,

For the land of the rest.

I'm so sick of all these pirates

With the sack of morbid breath.

I'm so sick of the monument.

Where is the level ground?

I'm looking for the torrent

Of the still that's still around.

I'm so sick of dry water.

Where is the blood full formed?

I'm so sick of wasted orders

Screamed at minds still stillborn.

I'm looking for pure nothing,

For the snap that unhinges aim.

I'm so sick of fruitless pumping

To reach the echo of a refrain.

Wasted seconds endless streaming

Through the hail of moons beaming

Reflections of suns scheming

As I wait at the gate

For saxophone blood pounding,

Saxophone blood grounding,

Saxophone blood sounding

Better ever than late.