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From the Pen of Inky Quill

Chapter Text

as nature’s re-occupation moves slowly,
advancing leaf by leaf, its soft-pawed poach
evokes not constricting dread, but lowly
regard for shy yet unyielding approach

an edifice of stone and prayer abandoned,
its walls engraved with prophets, gods of old
the verdure loves the saints, seeks to remand them
in prisons which crush-crumble as they hold

deserted, cavernous, surrounded, lonely,
they come down, down these elephantine roots,
they come tumbling down round windows which only
gape, empty sockets, maws of tongueless mutes

the temple husk is capped by tiered stone shingles
preserved in layered coats of velvet moss
the ages’ shades and tones, the grey bark mingles
with carpets lush of jade and emerald floss

the line between the growing things is starkly
obscure, what unfurls below, what canopies
so many greens, the fair-winsome and darkly
majestic, blended fronded alchemies

uncivilized, uncivilizing other
by grinding time and toil, such force consumes
in vines, the original binds, which smother
its cosmic breath inters as it exhumes

what can be remembered can be forgotten
what can be exposed can always be hid
what feeds the earth is, by its nature, rotten,
self-dying but from nature never rid

as vegetation campaigns to shroud fully
as ancient structure surrenders it frame
a far-off, far-down voice, wizen and woolly,
cries out, an old fathomless shout, “Reclaim!”