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An elk marched on
For he has no care for the stream he drinks from
To be filled with blood, bile or sap
It matters not, the wanderer of these wastes

Shall the morning burn a new icon on his brow
Or the night carve away at his flesh
A ritual made for the pleasure of the candledwellers
Or some hyperviolent priestess

There is a stream, the elk will not go
For it has been tainted with the most pure of virtues
To settle with a child nearest the hearth
Is to know more than any of the elder gods

Or to carry the kettle a hundred miles to the sea
It matters not, the fish she cooks with
But the heart she uses as bait
Or which wood she heats the home with

Man without sun, the elk presses onwards
Unaware of his own demise

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