Touch Ground

What lies beneath the leaves and the mold and the carcasses of the autumn organic fall? What is hidden what is mysterious what is hard to decipher?
Only muddy bloody bone will remain as ludicrous amounts of energy tears away the fabric that holds humanity, but as skin and flesh is torn and 'comes one with the worms and the soil, minds begin to boil.

Earth-Witch inhibits a humble stump-house: The tree fell - she hollowed it. Empty bottles cowers the dusty floor (not much of a floor anyways, trodden soil), camouflaging it from its purpose, as if she would make it a virtue to pest any pedestrians within her realm.

The vile smell of fungi and canker coils your nasals as you enter the stub.
The loud desire to go home and wash this sickness off
is only overpowered by a hunger for the eyes in the dark.
A mark
was planted in you last night.
Two crimson-red eyes with psychosis-spinning stars for pupils hypnotised your very private dreams.

Earth-Witch hides in the darkest parts of her stub-cave. Woven in rough linen she huddles.
She hishes: "hish!"
You seek her and her psychotic gaze.
She screeches: "I know what you seek! You seek me and my psychotic gaze!"
You nod.
Conjoined in the darkness you touch ground.


 Forever you unify with the soil and the darkness,
and in the spring time and in the summer time you come to life,
embodied in sacret play-time by anyone virile enough to pick up the torch of life.