The Scorched Earth: Poetry

The scorched Earth
has lost much in
the pursuit of knowledge,
leaving a sea of corpses
in the wake of holy waters

Now the cold wind howls
each sullen breath,
thunder bellows like a lover
whose kiss demands its fury

Yet at the end of this
desolate labyrinth,
beauty resides in the 
scabby branches 
and love exists 
beneath the weathered bark 
of a lone survivor:

The Winter Tree may yet
produce a single drop of wine.

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