Poetry is fun.
I like to write freeform poetry, but I also like to play with rhyme schemes. Poetry is more of a fun hobby to me than a devoted activity. 🐖
Perhaps there was once an easter egg here... or perhaps there was not. Perhaps there are more easter eggs hidden in forum posts. Are you going to find them all?
In the meantime, enjoy a poem or two. Only if you wanna.
CW: Animal Death, Brief Mentions of Blood
Mother sows her seeds in spring:
rhubarb, okra, tomatoes, and greens.
Fig trees, date trees, the stump of a peach tree—
spring runs rampant so that life roams free.
I join her, kneeling, under the sunny skies,
sending curled weeds to an uprooted demise.
Life makes way for life through death.
We sacrifice the dandelions for summer's breath.
Mother's nursery floats in tranquil serenity
until the rabbits arrive and reveal their identity.
Serpents, vermin, the black crows preen—
ripping lettuce and parsnips as delectable cuisine.
The vile ones prance through a demolished wreck,
unaware of the predator peering as they peck.
Crack goes the rabbit's neck,
snapped by the once-napping dog on the deck.
Docile, domesticated pet no more,
crimson spills from fangs in a wild pour.
But Mother remains in serene demeanor,
watching her garden grow cleaner and cleaner.
With each creature killed before her eyes,
the plants flourish greater, yearning for the prize
of beautiful life, from dandelions to peas,
rabbits to wolves, and the humans they feed.
The rabbits will return next spring;
in nature's songs, the garden will sing.
As winter melts for new life's glow,
death comes back next cycle to grow.
We rise from the shadow’s mirror,
a brainless army marching nearer and nearer.
This backwards society of devout believers,
feeding on the falsehood of information weavers.
Like a spider’s nest we wrap ourselves in,
enclosed by these desperate truths we pin,
from eye to mouth to our tongue spilling names—
a cocoon of darkness amidst eternal flames.
Recognition rots with our flesh, all black;
we lay our souls in graves of plaque.
Consuming this wicked entertainment feast,
words have painted monsters and beasts.
Such great madness and power in blotted ink
spills from the fountain of ignorance we drink.
In tarred waters we see a true reflection to be,
so we ripple the surface and destroy this plea.