Morning in Valladolid

I saw that seed bed today. 

Swollen. 

I still remember it's smell. 

The amazing aroma of a mother with child in mid-miracle. 

But what loving and kindness remains is broadcast from the earth

for this is my body talking.

This is the voice of my members.

Longing to embrace one with multiple leaders
who were washed away in a previous age
or blinded by esoteric knowledge.

But what happens is what must.
I turn and run
and hope to keep running from that split tongue.
That one that said she would run with me, but now remains motionless.
That one that said she would be with me, when in secret ran with others.
That shameful thing, protecting a core of incongruence,
and tossed to and fro,
squawking amidst an angry aviary,
who would protect their own rather then protect the truth.

So I run
for in this morning in Valladolid
we are nigh on the eventime of Guernica,
and everywhere the eyes are filled with the spirit of Azazel.