Dark birds above the burning gravel of your highways
vibrate at the core of their origin
in splayed blood soaked spider silk.tendons and unknowable spaces
pervade from their ongoing murder.
Bezzeck the older, larger than most,
grips the stone underneath its scarred and scaley feetperched on high
pointing down singing the devil is home
crow moments,they are unknowable and secret
so their darkest bliss may live out the pulse
that need emit balencing the blinding light
of Apollo and Jove.
At times this is accomplished by the death
of cursed new borns, or the great mother, whose true nature
is churning inside of every molten red mountain
"Please stop! lest we burn!" screams every mouth
As Bezzeck the older and many others
fly above the hold of those painfully trapped below
some inconcievable bath of fire, swallowing all they can know
screaming out the devils they name and make
in likeness to the just, and uncorupted seas, mount
ains, and space.
We forget deaths blessing amid the charred remains of our children,
born of the earth
So love is her only way,which change seasons forms new terrain
stops peace in its procession
kills parents nursing babes,but still in some insurmountable love
we call her by singing song and then breathe curses
while our cities sink and spirits leave
Monsterous deitys are born from the heaving breasts
of the mothers of loss

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