Land of the Sleeping Things

repsychl

I wade through mercury waters

A land speckled crimson

Peppered bloody, hematic and sore

Swollen, cancerous rocks, bloated, bulging 

and inflamed

Under a sickly sky, the trees gaunt and rawboned,

they reach, beseech, leeching for a way

out of their roots

Marks like swords – what has been here before?

It spread its air of death

Leaving a synthesised mess

A world left ailing and raw

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