The Reaping

The wind knocks, wrestling with your sealed doorknob. Your ceiling clings to the sky desperately. Water erupting from the clouds, they sob. Lava bubbles and burns red in the November tree leaves. It cracks your lungs, they scream. The insects feed and seed, sharp black mold carries you. Life and death kiss, they sleep together in your bed; while you bleed mortalities. bliss While bones shred, it won't blink because some gods don't cry. People are wearing, forests are reaping. Each soul sanctified, bodies purified. Silver church bells ring, rows of roses sing. The Earths tissues tearing apart will consume from your carcasses red pulp spring will bloom.