To everything for that which rages

in hidden pits of foreign landmarks

kindles to ashes in wooden cages;

are fending off several composed sparks:

pacified and organized symphony,

each hungrily searing, reciting their marks,

singing through slight orifices of me

as steam which cries through a many teeth,

lately from dark corners which I see

that stack of birchwood piled nice and neat

exhaling their sacred vows lost in clouds

with chilled smoke pluming in summer's retreat.

Yet winter blankets each returning crowd

of snowy marshmallows strung on the heat

like many unhappy campers screaming loud.