angst cycle (iii) — [е] (ii)

there are still
embedded in the fen
bogs like giant antlion lairs

they pelt you know
from the trap door below
swirling spirals
where there should be barley

walking this stark agriculture
under the traitorous burning sun
brushing the bogweed taller than god
or at least the priest who claimed to be

cyclones in the earth
shock sprinting at fifty at me
there’s something flintstone about the antlion
pedalling so fast so far who can get away

i’ve had months of nothing but
senseless events making a senseless land under a senseless sky
but they’re becoming rare
their pelting no longer drives me insane

but i still fall into these storms
i was slow to be unknowingly walked to here
i am slow to walk away
but i am walking away i am i am walking hand in hand with doubt

so do i still need to
the land is empty even of industrial tractors
the sky burns me grey
here is no place i am to walk

the strategy
en core
so difficult to fall into temptation
yet the strategy remains

i must engage