It is a salve of storms I come with—the songs of hail & wind & wild monstrosities from within the blackened pits of soul & heart from whence I grew. What is spawned is spun.
I will give what it is I have to offer, I am compelled, tho my generosity, may be a curse.
This salve, it has a sting, and if it is curing or poison, you must be of endurance to know. Each suffers inside, pouring out the festering & writhing & vomiting, & are you purged or are you pained?
Indeed, I have a salve of storms & until you live the deep green eye of it, emerging the other side, who am I to say if you’re healed or if you’ve been torn & torn & torn, apart. Apart.