of wheat and weeping wounds

the sun rises
impaling the sky
with golden flames
to strike direct
the heart of night
spread across
in ebon tides
an ominous warning
threats as yet
fade into the aether
frightened wisps
wrapped in silence
ensconced in dream

i find myself
standing in
brown fields of wheat
swaying though
i feel no wind
upon my sweat covered skin
the heat is palpable
in humid dismissal
an illness that
ferments inside
the germinating seeds
the thick black blood
the slow decay
blanketing the very land itself

i will myself to
another vista
another world
another shot
at making all the things
that went
precariously wrong
right again
chasing myself
through winding streets
that thread along
the festering sores
on the open mouth
of heaven

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