I was forced to leave the plains.
Sulked my way back,
what you think you know -
abandon all that -
return to the swamps.
Soak with me once again.
In the middle of the bog,
at the center of all
things dirty and violently drenched
sits a patch of green.
It contemplates life;
it is my beacon of creation,
and death, I have forgotten
what grass feels like
under bare feet. I cannot
swim to it, no not yet.
There was once a constant offering:
unlimited pleasure, unending possibility,
but now - now that offering
instead is sacrifice; it got cold
so very fast.
The plains were slashed and burned.
Now I lay at the bottom of a swamp.
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