Dust clears, red sun rises.
Sandy dusk, heat chastises.
Sky legion, inerrant flight.
Cries ring out, bred by night.

Scavenge flesh, torn away from bone.
Silent sanctum, perched on the stone.
A haze of bane, a punishing breath.
Clouds overhead, the flock of death.

A wake of vultures circles overhead.
The songbirds wallow in defeat.
No use in fighting you'll soon be dead.
And then you'll grovel at their feet.

A wake of vultures circles overhead.
The songbirds wallow in defeat.
They show no mercy, they're so unkind.
Murder babes at mothers teat.

When the frosted green sky found beauty and was betrayed, the town was windowless, and like a woman’s body, it was ransomed in the night.
Two instruments, both flawed, both old. Good friends, they skirmished in the forests, driven since childhood toward the place, apparitions of the wilderness.
She invited madness. Her terror was her weapon, her sins her food. Hunger was crushing her. She was afflicted.
He crowded the afternoon. His story became something older than stone, and perhaps his past was lonely, but he broke the window of time and listened.
They shouted, “This goblet is affection.” Torches broke the silence, blindly kneeling to their bleeding leaders, and the march into twilight burned them to ashes.
Blood for nothing. The firelight remained buried in the darkness of the eastern sky until, at last, their weapons, frail and betrayed, demanded peace. There was nothing left.

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