The true nature of thorns.
Elegies
May stir, deter
Memories of
Life's mapping
Dreamt up in dreams
And erased from the self's self
Time again.
Bloodletting
No longer suits me,
As oath and modus both
Wither, like hateful
Wildflowers
Harshening; parched,
Like her,
In unanchored,
Thoughts.
I pity the babes
Who shan't remember,
Suckling on soured milk,
Ushered
Into deep slumbers,
With muses of Earth,
Red and warm,
Over consistent drip, drops
And badly written
Odes.