48 lines
1 KiB
Text
Executable file
48 lines
1 KiB
Text
Executable file
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
|