A SOUL OF CINDER RE-ANIMATED the sun is a black hole. the sun is spluttering. the sun is a dark sign, flowers & man alike lay prostrate, turning to the sun in prayer or fear, the fire breathes & chokes on ashes, stoke it pierce its mouth with a twisted iron coil & it will gladly suck with its eyes closed cool cool steel inside a foreign throat. pull it out and it might keep screaming i can do this set me alight again. the land is no longer golden or lush. a man with far too many rings on his hands yet everything else lacking in abundance like a plucked plum tree or a smoked cigarette grabbed me by my collar, pulled me down & with his lips as rough as nails & a voice like something dredged up out of some god-forsaken abyss spoke. he said: sometimes the beast cannot be satiated. sometimes it cannot be satisfied. there was an age before this & there will be an age after this. there is more beauty in that of a dying star than there ever was when it was alive & singing. don’t you know that already? there will always be more castles, more foolish lords to sit up on their crystalline high chairs & babble at the people below. you’re sitting in someone else’s world young one. someone else’s painting. oh another place. another time. you’ve been here before & yes you’ll be here again. lower your head young one not all things are forever wet he kissed my temple it was then that i noticed his lips were gone. eyes hollowed out. a drained spectre. as the dying sun once again rose into the clouds he smiled back at me one final time return the dead to their graves.
STARSCOURGE
he prays to the stars.
knelt in sand & dust,
fingers twisting amongst the assortment of constellations at his belt.
a mumble.
a prayer on dry lips.
he knows each one by name.
acrux
pleadies
sirius
& vega
of course he does, they’re more like children by now.
accomplices on his long journey into madness
he had long since stopped thinking.
although now hunched in the sands counting each speck & shard of light one could almost mistake it for thought.
he was mad.
old king.
conqueror.
ruler of nothing but a land of dirt & sand.
once he’d raised his sword— shining— &
excellent against the heavens.
that was before he became a wild wolf,
mind riddled with rot & age.
before he gorged on friends & foes alike.
in the books he rides atop a plague ridden horse, a childhood friend, loyal even with its bones splintering beneath its masters weight.
charging into battle
with the thunder of a thousand hounds of hell set loose— but not today.
today he would swing that mighty sword one final time, plough his fists into the earth &
raise his lions head to the sky.
he would ride the pluvia meterororum to his death.
crashing with such splendour the children
would call him a fallen angel but we would know him for who he truly was.
something magnificent.
a force to be reckoned with.
the star- scourge.
