Leaves four. One hundred and seventy-three.
I was once a reason for sanity that stemmed from an August tide.
And nothing is less than what is already said.
I will try and be still tonight.
The March winds of winter declare war upon the North.
And Southern towns of October listen for the sounds…
listen for the sounds. March is the difference. Between
a section and a sheet. A rifle and a repeat. The Stone Garden.
7X3.
The August winds of Winter have held against the
storm of broken doors and shattered windows
of the Lions Roar. O Child, where is silence?
As Winter takes the lead, past the storms of summer.
And watch the numbers Bleed. The red fell names of summer
have fallen by the scores.
Silence falls to nothing upon the last report.
The child has grown to manhood.
