ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ROOTED, ROTTEN. / HEREDITARY GROVE AND IT SEEDS THE SOULS OF ANCESTORS: @KHERAELD.
──── Where It Grows, Mementos in the Marrow.
And it was cut, once, yet it still widens. We were born from nothing yet the dampened soil where the tree is once rooted. All filthy, yet it was the first glance of a few mortals that decided to garner. Where the womb bore the blossoming wood—letting the grafted blood ingrained in every mud as a witness of persevering love despite being drained. Where the trunk fathered the branches, and the branches fathered the twigs, and the twigs fathered the leaves. It is the flame-tinged fibers that splatter, the tightened hands to decrease the gloom that scatters, the tincture of maroon that always grows fearer. Oh, devastated one. What does a lineage of the wood mean if it is not an obsolete pith where the memoirs of ancestors still remain to be the sanctuary that is smothered by ivy and a place to shelter the tragedy?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤROOTED THE BLOOD, KHERAELD.
Perceive the bleeding skull as where we once shall be living in. There is a home in this tree that still awaits, bone-dry and almost-forgotten. A dusted and emptied sanctum where we might seek refuge and be obscured by the diluted touches of the air. / And it longs, it mars deeper, and it remembers greater. Where solace flows, where the fervour kindled, and where the kindreds gather. The tree perseveres despite the ruins that circled.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTHE ROOT OF SOLACE.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
ROOTED, ROTTEN. / HEREDITARY GROVE AND IT SEEDS THE SOULS OF ANCESTORS: @KHERAELD.
──── Where It Grows, Mementos in the Marrow.
And it was cut, once, yet it still widens. We were born from nothing yet the dampened soil where the tree is once rooted. All filthy, yet it was the first glance of a few mortals that decided to garner. Where the womb bore the blossoming wood—letting the grafted blood ingrained in every mud as a witness of persevering love despite being drained. Where the trunk fathered the branches, and the branches fathered the twigs, and the twigs fathered the leaves. It is the flame-tinged fibers that splatter, the tightened hands to decrease the gloom that scatters, the tincture of maroon that always grows fearer. Oh, devastated one. What does a lineage of the wood mean if it is not an obsolete pith where the memoirs of ancestors still remain to be the sanctuary that is smothered by ivy and a place to shelter the tragedy?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤ
Perceive the bleeding skull as where we once shall be living in. There is a home in this tree that still awaits, bone-dry and almost-forgotten. A dusted and emptied sanctum where we might seek refuge and be obscured by the diluted touches of the air. / And it longs, it mars deeper, and it remembers greater. Where solace flows, where the fervour kindled, and where the kindreds gather. The tree perseveres despite the ruins that circled.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTHE ROOT OF SOLACE.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ