Leigh Blackmore

In steaming fens and mires of primal Earth,
The efts of terrene life are spawned and spread;
A formless mass bulks large on the swamp-bed,
The loathsome Source whence all are given birth.
Some, aeons later, take the form of man,
Unconscious of to what they owe their mind –
An idiotic morass, star-born, blind –
And this, part only of the Great Ones’ plan.

New England graves, the earth new-turned and fresh.
Lie in the rain as mourners walk away,
Unwilling to dwell too long on the way
The maggot now corrupts the stinking flesh.
Nor he who lives, nor rots, suspects – but learns –
To Ubbo-Sathla every life returns

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