Death climbs up from the tenebrous places. Where it nested in the day, the sewers beneath the trees, the slums between the hills. Death sniffs in the murk, so the leaves shiver. Death reaches up to pluck the plump fruit, death drinks the rain that grew them. Coughs and slobbers from a million mouths, molten sputum and the sludge of its shit, but no tears will slake death's dry cheeks. Death is hiding in the rust, singing in the sand. Death is soft as dust.
We cleave it open to cast down the dead, but the earth is not the ossuary. It is itself the lich.
No comments:
Post a Comment