Blood, sinew, and the hills alive with music.
You now crawl from a flesh spore and spill out onto grass,
sunshine beholden to your arrival.
Air, good
Flowers, real
You were never much for morning glory
Tulips sang best topside as you lanced your last stab through.
The process was much like a birth,
something that wound your insides into knots
Air, good
I'm good,
you bargain empty sky.
You're greeted by a handful of pills rivering from the mouth you created.
You recognize them.
You need them.
If only,
if only you could somehow put words to form the vegetation haunching,
running like needles at your heels.
The formless walls,
their tendrils without them.
If only
A deep hollow chasms through you
The further you walk
Your machete dulls before your eyes,
corrodes,
the flat of the blade so opaque with blood
You can't recognize your reflection.
Stepping off the esker was itself an affront to an oath
Once hooked into your heart.
The hills are alive.
You never could escape yourself.
How many would die so that you might live?
The hills are alive, and they're coming for you.
Reluctant, you head back to brave the horrors no one else could.
YOU ARE READING
EISEN
Short StoryAn anthology of stories and poems loosely pertaining to the pursuit of a mythical city called Eisen. What someone might do, or have done to seek the answers bulb many of humanity's ugliest faces. Could the answer lie in you?
