MiltonSatyr
04-20-2020, 05:29 PM
Pardon us for sabotaging the harvest
and hanging the neck of your Babylon in its gardens.
But we’ve developed a ritual that ripens the darkness.
You can grab a bottle of holy water to chase the blood.
We made the sky starless from snorting all of the dust.
The crops are compromised, and I know that you’re starving
(hungry for the sacrifice that you have come to love).
We puked a plague of locusts in formation of a flood.
The nights went by as we consumed many moons.
One was the shade of blue, made the sky cry like monsoon.
The celestial bodies in our stomachs made us sick.
We would watch for your ghost during the hour of a witch
and stretch our guts until they were gluttonous balloons.
Forged a festival to celebrate the burning of a bridge.
Stars eaten, we stared into the eye of the abyss,
counting the coin-tosses of a two-sided eclipse.
But you had a hand in the damage that collected.
As we consumed the moons, you doused out the sun
and bled the earth through its underbelly to its guts.
You siphoned all the nutrition from its intestines.
Locusts flew out of our mouths, drawn to the crops.
We vomited the cocoons shed by wings with moon rocks.
You were confident that we wouldn’t feel the pulse.
The clouds were going to rain clouds instead of rain.
That’s when we decided to burn your bridge at the stake
and subject you to the eternal judgment of the flames.
We should have known that the harvest was indigestible.
Made certain there would be no reason for a festival.
Weathered from misfortune with the mark of the trivial,
and the scarred fibers are telling us the feeling’s mutual
as we wait our turn for the noose of your gardens.
No one to be excused for the ruin of the harvest.
and hanging the neck of your Babylon in its gardens.
But we’ve developed a ritual that ripens the darkness.
You can grab a bottle of holy water to chase the blood.
We made the sky starless from snorting all of the dust.
The crops are compromised, and I know that you’re starving
(hungry for the sacrifice that you have come to love).
We puked a plague of locusts in formation of a flood.
The nights went by as we consumed many moons.
One was the shade of blue, made the sky cry like monsoon.
The celestial bodies in our stomachs made us sick.
We would watch for your ghost during the hour of a witch
and stretch our guts until they were gluttonous balloons.
Forged a festival to celebrate the burning of a bridge.
Stars eaten, we stared into the eye of the abyss,
counting the coin-tosses of a two-sided eclipse.
But you had a hand in the damage that collected.
As we consumed the moons, you doused out the sun
and bled the earth through its underbelly to its guts.
You siphoned all the nutrition from its intestines.
Locusts flew out of our mouths, drawn to the crops.
We vomited the cocoons shed by wings with moon rocks.
You were confident that we wouldn’t feel the pulse.
The clouds were going to rain clouds instead of rain.
That’s when we decided to burn your bridge at the stake
and subject you to the eternal judgment of the flames.
We should have known that the harvest was indigestible.
Made certain there would be no reason for a festival.
Weathered from misfortune with the mark of the trivial,
and the scarred fibers are telling us the feeling’s mutual
as we wait our turn for the noose of your gardens.
No one to be excused for the ruin of the harvest.