Yggdrasil.

I spit on your lilies, Oh, fie on your weeping,
My atoms bear no emotes, just plastic thane:
Who governs all yet understands nought.
So make inferno from my coffin’s wood;
And writhe, unclothed, in circles of appetite
So that the divinity of ignorance can thrive
Like leeches breaching the skin of a youth’s leg,
And I’ll silently wait for the serpent to twist
With the shrivelled Old Three, remain very quaint-
I’ll hold their blade and bathe their gross feet;
After all, it’s a living.
 
I run to your girth, oh, timber most blessed,
And suck from your hardy, knobbed bark:
Like a babe to a teat, slurping on the sap.
So make mischief with my properties;
I no longer wish to be an antiquated seahorse,
Suspended erect from a glassine little string.
Ready to snap, so that I plunge through the musty landscape
And be born as changeless sand in a mound at the bottom.
Turn my sweet crystal into that of silvered steel-
And I’ll pursue as immortal, the ultimate Greed;
After all, it’s a living.
 
 
I am frightened too, oh, shivering zealously,
 Like a carcass in a desert knocked over by red winds,
Only for the yellows to revive them; the bone-ballet.
No veracity, for my trinity doesn’t tolerate a feast:
The Child, the Dead, and the Jester are cruel,
Masochism - Sadism, agony and desire that remain sundry;
In the ultimate cauldron of vanity’s ejaculation.
Which I use to moisten the Old Hags’ feet,
Who are gyrating in accordance to the rotation of the Earth,
Inviting me to make love to the Ouroboros, by nature;
After all, it’s a living.