walk through this with me;
this field of cracked eggshells and rotting figs,
an interlude without end,
a heavy twilight that robes the soul.
our horn is rimmed with salt;
our wings are clothed in cadence.

this is our asphodel,
our sullen graveyard with spoons but no honey
and ghosts in our mouths.
we walk amongst pockets fat with silver,
wine-stained contingent tongues,
souls bound to charcoal and ash.

walk through this,
our constantinople,
destined to crumble but tethered by
gold that weeps from cracks in white marble
and mixes with magnanimous light
dripping from our hands like lycium.

our battleground,
where platitudes crack like bullets
against our eardrums,
where soil is soaked in copper
and the promise of sunrise dies
in the wake of a mushroom cloud.

walk through this with me;
this earth, this kingdom seed,
this eden that breathes inside of us.
there is no other way.
we eat the world raw;
if we choke, it is only on truth.

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