Not yet plant or earth but soon.
Not yet runes or sin immune
In this room, and as my tomb,
My voice, only speaks as blooms:
Maybe then the creatures and eaters
Can make a home out of this unbeliever
For maybe I perceived or perhaps I was the deceiver
But I hope that in death,
I could be their redeemer
So when the weavers weave their homes
All along my bones,
My tryst with the reaper
Are where the feasts were.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 10:04 AM UTC
Not yet plant or earth but soon.
Not yet runes or sin immune
In this room, and as my tomb,
My voice, only speaks as blooms:
Maybe then the creatures and eaters
Can make a home out of this unbeliever
For maybe I perceived or perhaps I was the deceiver
But I hope that in death,
I could be their redeemer
So when the weavers weave their homes
All along my bones,
My tryst with the reaper
Are where the feasts were.
I tried to try something different