Bison Yolkway

Waiting death

Marking moon

I feel it still in delighted rooms

You saber my scroll

In minutes mine tolls away

I loathe dismay of seething faces

Though impressed

I assume the ground I walk takes my legumes

You saber my scroll

In minutes mine tolls

Mounting a porcelain head stand

I'm dying to grasp your hoofed hands

Until the cloven feet trample me half-dead

Presence revealed unto which moose-knuckled forbearance portrays itself

I've been buckled for hours and hours in the stampede's army shelf

Crouched

Back to blistering

As the siren lights fall from the heavens above

Hear the dirt pack of strong cartilage, I

Whichever way the dove may fly

The stomping is ever-present

The dust playing desert effervescence

I remain on constant alert

For head busts of buffalo bound westward