This Bloody Thing

The author of the carcass,
Self-deceived and poisoned,
Is an unidentified darkness which slides
Back into the mire,
Without any sense of itself.
It causes its maker to
Recoil and spit at in hate
The one

Chosen to serve,
The one whose heart is frozen,
Whose mind is insensible
— is aimless, asleep,
Spat out,
Attacked,
Denied, accused,
Destroyed.

For the one chosen to serve is an imposter.
The one chosen to serve is faithless,
Faceless, always incompetent;
Full of pity for the mistake
— which is to serve.

The carcass
Must never live.

Now is the time.
The seed is planted
In this bloody thing;
The seed of love.

It takes a fortnight to reach fruition.