45*21

what a simple task
it never gets done
the earth it moves
the greatest to the weakest
in a moments touch
nothing for the fierce to understand
read your book and
forget some anger
it moves along in digits
and trails in numbers unknown
you p[ounce) the only trail
one left alone, one left aside
you must attend the gathering
it will be you to fire melt
a canker on some religion if not yours
on the ceiling hang the animals of your desire
the fire of the penticle
the knowing of the dying
outcast for the time it took
but the balance is in the mirror
and the cast of the sable cloak