Mantra For Atavism

by Karma

 

Wilting tree from winter's scuffing breast, the reparation in a warming morn.
When all the songs of midnight's sojourn are lost, and blossom's voice unstill.
Nomad of the frozen earth to tred upon new soil that sinks, yet pushes fate asunder.
Hands by the fireside, a quicken and a quake, of spirit in the mist layered wake.
Felt a thorn in my side, kissed a rose in the night.
And water came to clean the flight of remain, like a tear flow from utopia's grief.
Lasting light of that final rebirth, the one in which the skin was seasoned in orison.
Profit of the luck that looked and left, no right it seemed to seam the strife,
But yesterday's vagary shelled by ambitious tuition, the flesh is bare and brave.
Whilst the haunters sleep in parades of evanescing wreaths, a baptism invades.
Newly forth and fragile stem of the springing stride, dancing over lecherous tides,
Breaking ground with courage on fire, the cracking masks of ghouls and geists tail.
All abound in the hardihood of the heathen soul, grasping at the nettles wild.
No blood to defile, umber skies crack aside, to hail the visions votive rites.