Oh my granddaughter, beware the prune of many pigments for it will be plum rotten to its core
As embellished fruits that follow the same small nuances that we have both emphatically bore
Whilst pale wisteria works itself into our bridge until you meet his iridescent claymore
Exterminating paper wasps that read into the liminal paint that barks to be more hardcore
Entering the chartreuse saunas of cryptids that house nude nymphs and their herbal egregore
Who would hate to ever see you cry out those damned odorous ointments you stole from that druid’s door
So you have transformed into some xeroxed xenobotanist and that is not easiest thing to ignore
Search for the apothecary founded by alchemical hybrids of the bronze-winged heifer
Who secretes out crystallized seafoam through some sympathetic cipher
You still have all those algorithmic affinities while he is still stuck in some backwater
So he raps bardic loyalty and compassion into herbal tinctures like some pining piper
He beautifies the boil with bile, regurgitates sweat, and uses beauty to slaughter
Cybernetically bloodletting and cleansing your beautiful lies with maple, cinnabar, and myrrh
Meant not to just conceive but refute his Great Work through heavy water
Leaving you to anonymously produce your own heart’s womb to never stray or deter
From the beginning of the construction of self into a cyborg, oh my granddaughter
© Niklen 11/8/26
