There is a mountain full of plums
dripped from a foreign vein.
A chewing mouth and feeling gums
spread it’s taste and feeds it’s brains.
How many rivers across it’s steep?
How many lies until they drain?
How many berries have to weep,
until their juice no longer spills?
The seeds are found in earth so deep
and strewn across the world’s quills
to grow within the ethic slums
inciting grace and mercy’s trills.