Alchemisland

Nothing left long enough to flower

Born restless, lifeworn when wrest from the womb which bore me

Then dead before an hour, cheap to embalm me

The last-long Druid power which cowed even the unflinching legion

Remnants of lost cults now lost leagues below the sulk

The stone, the truth, the way is the fluid, innately knowing how to do it

There’s no route to it, go through it, no one way to pray to Satan.