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