the Tulips

in a fleeting memory we lost our focus, blurring our lines, erasing our chalk. the wetness, bodies of our ancestors flooded onto us, drowning our last rites. the Godhead roared Eternal.

in a moonlit haze we crawled through thick and thin static layers of incoherence. soft targets melted into our flesh, as if a spliced branch looping into itself. the Godhead felt no pain.

he filled our village with ichor, tar, and oil, homes destroyed in passing viscous shockwaves. we had seen nothing but compassion, yet he took our trust, the sun as well. the Godhead bled no blood.

our worship was of our own hands, feeding from faceless fantasies of freedom. we were promised so much but we forgot how to counter clockwise motion. the Godhead held no power.