Nemophilist Poem by Christian Thomas Scott

Turn ye fabled arms from yon acreage of toil
Though preferable farther long this gift o' Saturn's reign
To every hollow hill in the basins of collection.

As though a cove of parched delirium
T'would prove effective on uplifting whispered spirits of forgotten ancient instinct.
Where naught prevails but that which blew from caelumheav'n.

Then forsake ye those white washed garments 'neath the sun.
They shall purge a shade's repression:
Choking on their self wrought words for change.

Anchored ancient though within and without prescience
This heavy laden atmosphere perpetually
Lulls in soporific-like delusions contravening with veracity.

Though not all olden places are convenienced,
As often in the circumnavigation of a prayer,
Some venues prove untarnished and forthwith preserving all.

Yea constant as renewal grows accustomed opposition
Both from merry men and starved apprentices of debt
Ol' Sherwood lingers on, you pitied cravers of the shell.

For wood is quite substantial under strain.