Ichor bleeds from the sky,
Like a freshly wounded
Battlefield.
It channels it's way to a man's skin,
Imbibes into his veins,
Defies his valves,
And forges him golden.
Bordering existences gasp.
How can a man so gleaming and paragon
Live among Mankind?
He's not human, he's our God.
He is who is desired
By the genuine and the fraud.
But the fault in everyone's minds
Is that no one recalls
That he wasn't bestowed,
But poisoned with ichor.
It burns his blood vessels
Slowly,
Slowly,
Slowly until he disintegrates.
And by the time he's gone,
Another Man of Gold has been made
Unready for the succession.
YOU ARE READING
And the Petals Fall
Poetry❃ From one of the flowers in my infinite garden, I present to you a caricature of its petals. ❃
