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When innocence unfolds deep within the heart

and joy on every bough does bide awhile and memories of verdant grass the obdurate soul beguile

and cure whatever is amiss

when you think yourself a gardener

lovingly ploughing the soil

and watering the parched earth

my blood like a springtide does rise so high and overflows all bounds

the orbless skull fancies a horrid benefactor's numinosity

and dwells in changing sameness of nought that gluts the throat of all

oh, barren earth — is this the new creation of nought?

shall the gardener's plough trace a cleaving rut through parched soil

to entice your black sap from deep below?

the young bosom is cold for lack of mother earth's nourishment, tears and care

we weep over the officious glory of death

and death dwells in cities where the roots of every heart on earth infix deep their restless twists and wither

the barren earth oozes blood and shakes and moans, to drink her children's gore

I love your head — though vile it is

a gardener ploughs the earth to reap the fetid ears

to feed the young whose bosom is cold for lack of mother's nourishment

and clouds are fraught with swords of lightning that part the shroud

concealing the gardener's vision and chasing slumber from her eyes

the transgressor hungers for new worlds to inherit

black as bereft of light

the pathless ways lead through vales anon

and faint and weary I shall rest and sink into the barren earth