Though the ground is stamped and wetted worn
In the air I can smell the tree - its ash,
A scarred world. And the gates begat a demon,
Lifting its spider arms and many eyes
It pierced the sky and through those various
Holes it exsanguinates the beast above,
The Great Old One, and wraps its skin around.
And in the inky stain of night alive
Or dead I can still smell it strong and burning.
"The sky is paper thin here", a silver
Vibration deep in its hood where a face
Should boom out a radiant white sunlight.
Instead a bloodless rip with no layer
As the monster penetrates that paper.
Spears generate warmth
in the salty snow, relief
bound by bitter bars.
The schizoid split gives
one moment for our pardon
safe until next spring.