The Far Orchard

No words scribe the horrid clime,

faintly traced beyond all time.

The sphere engorged, to ferrum falls

in versal forged, an orbit calls.

Rebind constraints to mobilize,

all that’s lowly steeled to rise.

Thence alight, the wasted womb,

swelling dark with seeds of doom.

In dauntless form, append the prize,

with soul aflame in punctured skies.

Petty treasure, won and lost,

let it be not over-tossed;

but stockpiled ’til the afterglow,

drawn with fervor, unsheathed in woe.

Armaments to reave effulgent fruit,

to hew the orchard, stem and root.

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