For all things, there is a season.
and now is the season of unearthing.
I will drop through tunnels
made by madness not my own,
but mangled hands that gouged my green content
and planted there a twisted pit
of unwelcome fingers, and blades.
There are bones down there,
pressed into oil by the heat of my blood,
and they have settled into deep wells.
This tarpit will not go cleanly,
but I will drain it, burn it,
choke through endless depths of it;
the old stench will leave with the new blight.
No hero in this world has lived
who did not hold the soft flesh of their heart
and weeping or screaming,
carve away the stubborn rot of shame.
This body is a vast green country,
and there is no god, machine, or plague
that can kill what harvest love has sown.
Leave a Reply