The sword of thy rebellion hath felled the tree of thy hope

21. O MOVING FORM OF DUST!

I desire communion with thee, but thou wouldst put no trust in Me. The sword of thy rebellion hath felled the tree of thy hope. At all times I am near unto thee, but thou art ever far from Me. Imperishable glory I have chosen for thee, yet boundless shame thou hast chosen for thyself. While there is yet time, return, and lose not thy chance.

The sword is dulled, blunt,
sawing through, slowly
bruising, tearing, never clean.
Each grinding stroke a choice
driven by the weight of those before it,
the onslaught relentless.
The tree bleeds.

Fallen trees give way to rotting earth.
Slain bodies give way to thrusting roots.
Everlasting souls extinguish in bestial desires.