There upon the plane that does not exist within the moor,
far too false and facile for any home but the maze or home itself,
lies the aborted offering insubstantiated upon itself,
the wooden table altarized for what-is-no-longer-wooden,
that thing which has gone on enduring from the time
when deathly father and deadly sons sealed from sunlight
only to corrupt the seals placed upon their graves. How could they not?
Lord of Graves and graven images whose wordless wonders lie beneath the earth
down barrow-ways, beneath the stone uncarved and caved
And I remember that tutorial I saw long ago:
"How to crush slav(e)s and frogmen."
Take up your axes and lop away the nefarious polysemy
of all branches but this one.
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