Deep wet valley, where shadow
shrinks now from star spit,
shimmer red, black,
deep black claret—
Shouts now still,
now we circle on the
carrion of dead kings,
priests and husbands,
where jackals mix,
our eyes press upon
the legions of the deceased,
and above us the mist shrouds now
the silent mountain’s monument to men
dead for crown and country.
Among us the sharp-beaked
black ones prune even
rings from fingers,
while we prise hearts from
unsprung traps of chests.
Day breaks inside the valley;
chill dark despair,
the dry howls of land animals,
gas, mist and something other—
an aether of an abject sentiment akin to
a prayer said once then never redone—
rises unambiguously from the killing grounds.
When we all are filled with flesh;
bundles, strips and loops of it,
we flap our wings and rise from
eyeless mounds of lost gamesmen,
we spill out into the
and down below ghosts stumble
on the stiles of ladders
leading outward from the valley.
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!