Penumbral Horticulture

In committing this vital sin

You’ve let the homunculi in

It's very selfish you know

To tempt an animate being

Only to then seduce into secrecy

While holding their pulp and sensational components

It's simply not appropriate

Not entirely fair

As you examine their inner workings

Calling forth with your runic commandments

A soul-A substance-A marrowed lining

Wavered into existence with cultic leanings

All numbles and complex tubular revelations

Perching on sooty branches

Overhanging grimy soil

Kissing them happy when the reaper comes to call

For mortality can't long abide on mysteries and luck

Without a hint of charity

Without the clarity of something beyond bone and blood

Your harvest is merely a prolonged execution

Maybe remember the next time dark clay cracks your fingernails

Under the woody moon:

1. That you are not God

2. You are not a savior free from repercussions of careless creation

And that you're kind of an Asshole