from beneath
mountains
they attack,
my mind
like a
burning brick,
incomprehensible,
bewildered,
and dead.

as the pale
light glints
in the dust
risen from
below their
hooves,
their faces
dark and
mangled,
their swords
dipped in
gore,
the viscera
of my brain
steams in
the cool dirt.

the scene,
again
unfolding
across the
shaded hillsides
of our unending
histories,
the fog
glowing red.

and as the
swollen sun
cuts across
the apex of
the tree line,
everything
hushed now,
the call of
our last bird
carries into
the yellowing
morning.

to murder this night
i must glide in
as an assassin
mute, taciturn
as if on a whispered
raven's wing

with a thin guitar string
wrapped around its throat
with a twist of the wire
i feel it cut
into the tender flesh
and the night gasps

the stars wince with
their dead flickering light
the moon turns its face
away, so as not to
bear witness
of my impropriety

the garrote slips into
the meat of my fingers
the blood pools at
our feet and in the glory
of the sun's first rays
my hands glow

like two electrified
rubies, dripping with
the dangling gore
of a butchered night