Grey arms stroke
this age'd form,
as the sun's warmed beams
lighten a path
to these ancient stores...
A milk house perhaps,
with towers of skeletal legs
once promising flow from the core.
The well of the earth soul...
sweet, pure essence
flowing from the heart,
once pristine ,
now degraded and foul.
Drink not, old fool,
for the essence here is not pure.
No longer the nectar of life,
this foul pit's stench,
a slurry of man's brew,
oozes like a pox
on withered limbs.
This peaceful vision of deceit,
a well of crystalline springs,
is only a ruse...
I say drink not, old fool,
this siren song is the death of a world...
Shhh...listen...
