2024-01-04

poetry/m/mitad1.txt

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+Mitad-marida I
+2022-06-11
+
+***
+
+Cold summer. A cold heart
+beats in my chest
+as I from my house depart,
+legs stiff, left arm
+aching.
+
+Father spoke, "You are going to kill this tree."
+It slipped
+from his lips
+like a prophecy.
+Dogs outside my bedroom window gnawing
+on the Velouria Bush, Nidhogg,
+portent of the Eschaton.
+Too short, too squat,
+too weakened from the bark not
+there anymore
+to hang myself from branch's ledge
+in hopes of gaining the knowledge
+to see this world through to its bitter end.
+
+I kneel before the now-fenced-in stump
+and reach forward. My limbs falter.
+A bramble or some other thorn from Dead End Shrine
+draws a gash through my skin, nature's penknife.
+Rivulets of blood stream
+down without recognition of pain,
+carmine trickles, a river, a flood,
+guided by the soft-falling rain
+before the altar.
+
+And I pray,
+
+let us reconcile before closes this day.
+Dead-End King,
+lead me to victimless iniquity.
+Lead me to damnation
+without hurting a single being
+undeserving.
+
+***
+
+CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander