Seeds of Carnethi

Wind of germs,

stained violet

tepid skies–

the seeds of Carnethi

blaze icy,

in demon’s hand.

 

Kiss the populace,

trimmed nicely–

acceptable sickness of Carnethi,

equivalent horns of plagued dust

warm tongues bluntly.

 

Tail of arrows,

cross directions

run from everything–

in nothing’s wake, there’s always something.

 

Devil’s grenettas,

feathered toes of poisonous pointsettas

growl with the wind

in choirs of blowing illness.

 

Direct me, Carnethi,

wrap my wounds in tissues and papers

of disease analytics–

not,

never

healthy.