The Crimson Ground

The Crimson Ground

The land is torn.

Shadows rise.

Blood seeps deep,

Where silence lies.

A storm above.

Its mouth is wide.

The clouds are split,

With secrets inside.

The earth remembers.

It burns in folds.

The colour of sorrow,

The colour of old.

No leaf grows here.

No roots take hold.

Only the weight,

Of stories untold.

The ground is living.

It breathes in pain.

The crimson ground,

Will drink again.

A wind moves low.

It whispers names.

Of men, of women,

Of forgotten flames.

Rocks crack open.

The soil sighs.

A river of echoes,

Runs beneath the skies.

Darkness crawls.

It thickens the air.

Every step taken,

Draws blood elsewhere.

Bones lie hidden.

Under the crust.

A testament silent,

To grief and mistrust.

The storm speaks now.

Its voice a knife.

Slicing the memory,

Of stolen life.

Nothing forgives here.

Nothing will mend.

The crimson ground waits,

Until the end.

It drinks the rain.

It drinks the dew.

It drinks the fear,

Of those it knew.

And in the night,

When the moon bleeds low,

The land exhales,

A darkened glow.

The ground remembers.

It burns again.

Forever crimson,

Forever pain.