Where a white willow grows
the earth is barren
its crackled flesh torn
landscape aberrant.

Roots churn and sink
nourishment found there
in blood's opposition
wellspring of despair.

Upward reach, pristine branches
then fall, whiplash tears
there, saintly sentinel
stains the ground in fear.

Your shadow is empty
ichor flows where sap was
vultures nest in your arms
glossy feathers, holy jowls.

Still you rise, lofty
encroaching the sky
your promises empty
bitter brew, your lies.



Penned by my hand on the 14th of Miraman, in the year 652 AF.