I will stand knee deep in heavily laden soil.
There I will craft that wheat grass into ropes and
tie my own wrists tightly.
I will rub the mud on my face if only to jump start
(Not in a field of lilies, mind you,
Stripped and full of broken boulders and empty)
That's where I'll die.
I will walk there willingly and I will
rip out my own intestines to beckon the crows. (i am them)
And if there is a god who cares about my personal queries,
well, it'll be then that I ask her about things like my skull
and my rib cage,
and I'd probably bring up about sacrifice.
But probably, I'd just ask,
politely of course,
"what the fuck?"
And for once, I will
let loose the glass from my marrow.