I woke up on the edge of the world where the craft of war was beating and bleeding the Land’s heart dry. I stood to defy. I stood to fly.
But where there should have been wings, there was nothing but the sin of degradation—ropy scars, tattered remains of another existence.
I stood in resistance, my persistence stood in the smothering smoke of the hallucinogenic drug built to sustain a wicked lie, an untruth, a way to adversify.
I rose alive, eaten away by Dali’s clocks and the meaty claws of raptor crustacean eternities. I rose to cry, to spew words and language, punctuated syllables pinched in grey colored robes.
A crown unties itself from its own mysteries. A widening ravine drips with venomous and writhing serpents of forbearance.
But I rose transparent, alone in a cocoon of silent lucid dreams—Pluto’s own coming an intoxicated state.
I rose up from hate, that rare cold orb spinning madly in the spaces beyond the great columns of nebulous star tides and Iapetus’s demise.
I am rust.