Vacant Cloudstrips stretching nowhere basking in patterned rings of blue. I look and see not two not three or four but an epoch of lives lost man who will make it to the sun? Softly I listen to the countless jargon of morning birds crying who has touched the sun? Who has felt the burn of madness scorch his yearning brow?...
Sketch: Vol. 39
, Article 15.
Available at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/sketch/vol39/iss1/15