Ritual

Seven suits scream strange sounds.
Formerly found fools freak
on optical
illusions. Insulting, instigating, inspiring,
cold crass cobras
to take tablets to town to
build big brass baphomets.
Pygmy people place pipes
upon umbrellas.
Catacombs crawl
with wind's whipping wisp.
Red robes roll
down doors. Deafening
monument's moan "more". Moss
falls from fruit.
Grasping grass grows greener.
Breasts become beautiful
dew droplets,
soaking scorched sand.
Parched parchment penetrates partitions
left longing.