The sky drips extracted fat
onto plains of brass and bones
where lakes of whispers wait
for far-flung glaciers to scream.
Roads paved with boils and sores
guide endless, lonely legions to halls
where mourning youths wage war
against their ancient selves.
Tongues flayed of their secrets hang
from the snapped-spine branches
of trees only able to grow from
a loam of cancer-corrupted organs.
In a fortress spun from spider silk shadows
motes of living light eviscerate themselves
so as not to awaken the night-giants
who sleep under dying stars.
Their unlived lives are faded dreams
where two-faced spectres pirouhette between
the random thoughts of silver-skinned men
who deceive themselves in the name of truth.