Swift end to a thankless life
Rank bonestrewn midden of the Blanka-like Avanc
Without anger or undue disgust, I dismembered your flank
I bury you in the soft fertile mud of the riverbank
That which stinks overmuch, and cannot sink, I stuff in sacks
Parts of your gouged back I distribute, feeding you to the land
The rest I burn then scatter over a wide area spanning
Many journey’s worth of miles
I cry, one tear salting my shovel’s haft
Turning aft from the gyring bath
I backtrack through plains mapless and trackless
Until I find an attractive tree and rest my back to it
Still as the angler I sit afterwards.
I sit with muddy hands and anguished visage
Like God having sculpted Adam
And to that face hath given a God’s case
Yet retaining him that impotent ape rage
Which unchecked would sway ultimately fate
To the darkest Norns yet made, their wool cascading
Down four walls of an ebon tower like split Rapunzel.
Alchemisland 
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