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.
