The Sky Bled (04)

Dull reflections in a vibrating shallow, vibrant greens glow against neutral grey. I find shelter to feign calm stillness, the trees roar their dissent. “come to me prophesies, come all foreboding, come sprits and visions.” Yet the mused well-spring is hollow, a confused pubescent male in the Rites of May. Branches convulse and mutter, roots in silence. The May Pole is entwined with the serpent. Water in, Blood out, comes all life from fissures and incisions.