Of great tidal grass, blades splashing downward
Not of war but of wheat, stalks stretching onward
Skies painted bare, clouds witnessing none
Wonder not the farmlands, wander not the steppe
We are of many, of many bones we climb
Atop the crests, shattered windows scatter hope
It lets in the many ghosts, it shelters out bloodied hands
Be this a tomb to hold? Or a crypt to pilfer?
Trapped anew, in concrete deserts
See the giants standing, mills to grind the meal
Do we eat alone or together?
A narcissistic endeavor, inferno within to generate resolve
Smolders singe and burn the farms
In its flames, in its ash, we do bathe
And in death we carry that warmth, of ember'd life
Of scorched soul
O Mighty Hela
Forgive me
YOU ARE READING
Lines
RandomA mess of stuff that won't fit elsewhere. Some are pretty absurdist, no direct continuity unless stated (doubtful on that, these are meant to be one-off poems/stories). I like to explore different styles of writing in small works like this, so some...
