The Prophecy of the Harvest

Sprouted from the ground, fertilized by the cosmos. The static moon ignites my destiny. My body thrives as I extend my fingers to the sky. I offer my gift of photosynthesis. Let me cure you. The hallowed chloroplasts spawn through your air, converting oxygen into dye; concede as this reality is now my canvas. The clouds melt, dripping on the chaotic heirs. Their teeth manifest from the outskirts of the thing you call home. They crave more as your visceral existence begins to dissipate. Now, you are all as one, and I am one of many. Let us grow.