Did you hear about that Will,
who walked upon the duskless night
with a grace, the moisture crowing at his heels,
that would trail over his steps when he stepped on the pavement.
It fizzed on contact.
sun-blind sky.
terrifying eye of satan
in the air;
angel’s feathers dangling
forlornly, like nooses
from the galaxy’s branches.

Slam the ice against the wall.
When it is still melted.
And after a few hours, when it’s
after hours,
rip its golden blood down the side of the plastic
and wrench its lid from the top of the freezer
violently, desperately,
because fast approaching footsteps are haunting your meal.

But you clutch the arrow to your chest;
not caring if the tip slices the fabric of your shirt
and of course, being transparent,
you certainly don’t care about it piercing your heart.

Blue across the branches.
Breath in the snow.
Prayer in prison.

Did you hear about that scrofa
who scavenged after the young hopes of men
and joined with the woman who rose from her ashes
and the woman who brandished her sword to tyranny—
They descended on from the snow
like ice-cold saints
tipped with hell
and crying wolf.
They harvested souls
and held hands at the chessboard;
chanting for justice and mending for hearts unbroken.

They call themselves The End
And they gather around it too;
they throw to their feet the eyes of the mystic,
suspended in soul water plumes,
a communication of a vow
deep set in the heart.
And they debate with tired eyes;
hurt and terrified,
hiding behind ancient life and mistaking themselves
for gods.

He descended first. and ascended in steps of pale cornflower.
And he carried him up; with steps weighed of death.