Visions Appalachia

This moldering threshold 'pon the hoof of my door  
It slithers  
Spins into the face  
I recognize,  
Once a terra cotta,  
The arrogance, your naked seedling  
In my sacred lips Virginia,  
My flesh of Appalachia  
Green, though your  
longing hills  
circling round, where deep  
beneath me a watchful wolverine  
in feverish decay, stays its guard  
A light to force in fire,  
A visceral tribulation.  
Arms filled to the bone in blue  
Every word a passionate cancer,  
Patiently pleads,  
Save us our womb of constancy,  
Our sage of sense and evergreen,  
Allow us this natural deity  
bloomed from sister's cast;  
three tiered in fate  
as days will crow  
A prayer of warning as orbs form in earths's  
sandy contemplation:  
Dripping for our wounds  
are these ragged stairs,  
The howl from door's descendant,  
While we descend the moldering  
Written by Perdition
Published | Edited 6th Nov 2015
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