Soil – A Poetic Notion

Image result for oak tree at night

Death is my Religion

Death is my sacred Mother

Death is the vehicle by which my soul traverses the heavens

She is no macabre fancy

But a perfumed blossom

When I was a boy

I dreamed of a rotting woman in an upper room

She would beckon with her will

And I’d enter first the parlor

Then ascend the stair

There she lay on her sick bed

Eyes fierce


Nurture and discipline at once

All would fade to such black terror

Such abysmall emptiness

So complete

It sucked the heart from the breast

The heart from the heart

All chambers collapsed

But then in the charnel stench of decay

A bright light glimmers

And I become a raging fire

Her stygian embrace was but soil

From which my sappling oak would spring

So I do not fear

But worship

For when I go to ground

I enter through the womb again

To return to father’s house

For the sun is spread throughout

In billion upon billion glimmers

And there I go

To hang

Till again

The ground it calls to worship

And births a nation

I the man

Have but one rite

The worship

Of the mother


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