Spirits Infection

Thu, 07 Dec 2017

By Dylan Burgdorf

The crimson is bled, by which liquid abstained, As harsh crash the bones ‘neath foundations we’ve set. In fear of the sight, walls broken not torn, And bare now the weight, a droplet made legion. Formations of steel, through which valley rent ice. A rust spread from hope, wills weakened, infected. As torment defies, flakes generational crust. The gore spackled jester, in which ophal will dance, And whom’s peers will announce, possessing rational sanity. In bright fields marked Perdition, their silence replied. A vantage once shattered, demanding repentance, Hills shudder and groan, dead grass linking chains. Now refuse, once gifted, a time ravaged sprawl, Conforms to the heresies decreed by its god. Debris forms the ground, bright thorns pierce the sky.

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