Alchemisland

Ground too hard or too proud to glaive

He explained gravely, plus or minus some words the Lord forgave.

The baleeny veins of his Bernini handback drained his flooded brow

A mighty thirst was prompt obeyed, he knocked back his amount.

He didn’t whorify his unglorifying ways on our account.

The horror of his blotched, striated nails as he made his count

Even now breaks me out in the bumps below the goose’s down.

The gravemaker’s spadetip repelled like a blow by a rebelling

Peasant’s brittle fork against the dragonscaled

Frame of his heaven-given Lord.

Is it that time already? Good Lord.

Clay’s confination

Last Autumnday.

Today’s chill the only confirmation

It’s not that day still.

I personally find May crueller than any changeable April

Ground too hard to glaive at first eventually gave.