The land makes me uncomfortable;
each crooked branch hooking plants
and their stance stands to make me
look at man.

Each strand of hair waves at a blade of grass,
feeding off the dead.
Seething in my head
instead of screaming into the mass of land.

Dead field; tombstones protruding,
next wheel in a loom only using
hands to make a blanket
to cover the globe.
  
Against a grey tree, lately
it seems that I will be little more than
a flayed piece of meat making
an imprint in the mud.

Stood shivering, simmering blood,
red face on black cloud.
Nothing still, killing time
while time does likewise.

Broken angels and idols of old
hold idle fables that watch me grow cold.
Names erased in the moss,
lost in the face of the earth.