This isn't a journal: It's a wound. (wombanne) wrote in mortualis,
This isn't a journal: It's a wound.
wombanne
mortualis

fields are empty variation

your mind rolls down a hill like a rock
frees itself from the ground on a ramp into the sky!

harvesting has just begun / ride metallic horse into field / dogs of war bay with gloves instead of cries / blisters and sore instead of fur / corn mother hides corn children from us / sky is gray and thick like concrete / it grinds our heads when we move too fast / water that bleeds through it soaks clean / horse sows rust into field / and from war we reap corn

the whole thing reaks of "bean serfs," and "tomato samurai."

why not post something for delight of the season?
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