Beneath the balefire sky

Today dawns with a stark clarity, the sun's light cutting through the pink clouds like a blade.

The day rises pale and unbidden, its light spilling across the earth like a wound.

The Tallest Poppy rose in the field like a thing ordained, its crimson head lording over the pale expanse. It bore no fault but its stature, yet the world is cruel to what stands apart. The scythe would come, not for justice but for balance, and the earth would drink deep of its severed bloom.

I Wrapped My Arms Around Your Waste