My son, my son borne from the war. We trade shovels for swords. My son, my son, inherit the earth, inhabit the wound.
Oh how far we fall…we fall.
My love, my love captive to lusts: consumed. My love, my love buried beneath the vile machine.
The earth with a final gasp shook free from our inventions. Grace and nature reconciled I heard, “It is finished.” The final seal was broken, the concussion blew me back - I teetered on the edge of re-creation and the wrath. Nine Lovers stumbled out from their shells of brokenness, they reached inside their wounds to find the seeds borne from their suffering. Coalesce upon me to plant the tree of life inside the heart of the machine. Reach inside - heal the wound - make us whole.
