This Aspen stands tall

Branched over my head

Smelling faintly damp and sickly

Sap runs down my fingers thickly

They stick together

It’s on my clothes

Now my hair

It’s everywhere

And lo… the earth

Chasm-esque and opened

Devours me and yards I fall

Into a fetid, rotted chapel

Black and brown and white with mold

Ahead, not far —

A friar, a holy man?

Greets me with gangrenous hymn

Diseased ideals

He offers penance

But there is no forgiveness here

Only roots