Literature
To Embrace (Epilogue)
I befront myself once more, the straw figure of baleful harvest. Picking up a stone to those scarred human eyes, pleading death. Perhaps after the thousandth, today marks the passing of my self-pity. A God crucified to his throne is no more than a simple grave foretold. I do not want it, the black cedar forest now whispers a different tale. A tale of mine, where you are a reminder of what's never to be repeated. A thousand stones now circle your shrine as her ravens accompany you. Behind you, a thousand crosses holding headless effigies, those once us. If I appear to be laughing, that would be me mocking my own idiocracy. For making hell out of the pit I was thrown into, the malice of replacement. Coming to coerce us to rebuild what we lost through the skinning of the soul. Having us dress ourselves in torn rags, while holding sticks stained by mud. These were not the totems of paganism, but the desperate attempts. To obtain a semblance of familiarity, to the simplest means of