Black

Lay waste, Black Sky.

______________

Where the figure wakes.

Among the rubble, and bodies

of his peers. Faceless shapes.

Jagged silhouettes. Contorted

like shadow puppets on walls

from the depths.

.

He hops among the toppled

monoliths in their crimson

brick and dust

gathering on his palms

where you'd ask if the guilt

would be.

.

And devoid, worse frost,

he bares his back to eyes,

twitching very shape

to the movement of mouths

spurring hunger that howls

for edge of earth begging

his name.

.

Because his dreams won't.

Instead lashing like

slay master driver

thrumming cores eternal

paling sharp

in darkness reign.

.

A sick must, hot,

beckoned destiny,

sticking thick to his skin,

like dew on leaves,

beneath fur matted

by the blood of tongues.