A sentient tree, surrounded by silent death and ever blinding light.
The emergence of lilies on the palms of a beguiled man. Willing and cursed.
Scent, filling, engulfing with desire and passion and the want of pain and pleasure.
Struggling, bruised, hungry, grinding, ripping, gnawing on the flesh of the fallen.
Microscopic tears recovering from the strain of a night of liquid and sound.
Centers of galaxies growing. Antiquity seeking renovation, relinquishment, revelry.
That which escapes, pacing itself, traveling till the end. It’s fear no different than a child’s.
Again, a sentient tree, empty of thoughtfulness, withers, and cries.