Whore of the Earth

The place I have reserved for us
isn’t far away,
it’s just beyond a stream that flows
in a strangely luring way.
The water folds o’er rounded stones
like bending, twisted glass,
the stream, itself, a dark ribbon
that cuts through a field of grass.
But this one here is different, see?
the water isn’t clear.
no fish exist within its arm;
no living thing lives here.
The water, too, is not the same
as other, happy streams.
It’s red and thick; its sight was born
in nightmares, not in dreams.
It reaches on from left to right,
constricting inner seams,
and on each side, the wight-like trees
watch o’er, so it seems
But ne’er a root from any tree
dare touch the tainted stream.
So come with me and take a seat
along the jagged shore.
Observe the waters stretching out
like a bloody, ageless whore.

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