regards to a drifter.

progressing in the sense of delay...
truth be known, be shown,
to be an exfoliation to end the world.
my regards to a drifter, the maestro of openings.
let his chilled iron thought regress into bloom.
to these stacks, these piles, pillers, and peaks,
thought the one to the showers of nature to speak.
the golden? no. the iron, be done.