The Barren Earth Oozes Blood, and Shakes and Moans, to Drink Her Children's Gore (Part I)

When innocence unfolds deep within the heart and joy on every bough does bide awhile and memories of verdant grass the obdurate soul beguile and cure whatever is amiss when you think yourself a gardener lovingly ploughing the soil and watering the parched earth my blood like a springtide does rise so high and overflows all bounds the orbless skull fancies a horrid benefactor's numinosity and dwells in changing sameness of nought that gluts the throat of all oh, barren earth — is this the new creation of nought? shall the gardener's plough trace a cleaving rut through parched soil to entice your black sap from deep below? the young bosom is cold for lack of mother earth's nourishment, tears and care we weep over the officious glory of death and death dwells in cities where the roots of every heart on earth infix deep their restless twists and wither the barren earth oozes blood and shakes and moans, to drink her children's gore I love your head — though vile it is a gardener ploughs the earth to reap the fetid ears to feed the young whose bosom is cold for lack of mother's nourishment and clouds are fraught with swords of lightning that part the shroud concealing the gardener's vision and chasing slumber from her eyes the transgressor hungers for new worlds to inherit black as bereft of light the pathless ways lead through vales anon and faint and weary I shall rest and sink into the barren earth

Submitted by SerpentEve — May 09, 2026