From Withering Glades Poem by Shane Markie

Come! Ivory spirits, from withering glades
Lotus transformation, as you fell from heavenly shades.
Rise! As nocturnal children, upon sacred mound,
Chosen vessels of prophecy; a gift in tongues with words profound.

Scoffing sire among the mass
Bekon the elderly sheep to pass.
One by one, they kneel before
Smiting the plains, while invoking the shore.

Within the void, 'Blessed Be!
An angel of night-scape's tapes
By wailing curse, we thus behold
We are the potters, and you are thy mold.