A deluge of rusted blood forms words decipherable by every soul, and are spit forth like rotten teeth, a ricochet of anger, unrequited.
Where are the leaves of trees of yesteryear that birthed orchards ripe with inspiration and hope?
My hands, they shake beneath the cirrus sky, yet tears of July have cleansed the impurity of humanity I felt within my own spirit.
I had lain flat on my back in a meadow and all I heard were screaming trees. A foreign sound to nature. I sat up, immediately.
“I wished to place both palms upon my ears. I, too, were responsible for the bloodletting. The sky grew dark, the chatter, more clear.
As it poured, my clothes were stained a most deep maroon, the lines of my palms sketched in shades of copper. I begged to close my eyes.
The sun did not heed my supplication. I were imprisoned within myself, in blades of grass, dew now sweet as honey, the food of the Gods.
It is in this orchard of nowhere in particular, that the sky birthed blood, a great deluge, where I witnessed the cries of mankind. “