The sun pulls with it a tide
of burgundy oil spilling
like a butchers bucket
across the backs of men
before they are pitted
against tigers.
One hundred and 80
degrees separates the tips
of dark wings from the pitter
patter of darker
intentions. The condor
sings at dawn
for the coming sunset
when teeth will stalk
again. Moonlight gleams
against wanton grins
like tiny daggers that
whistle softly in the winds.
There rises a cry in the ears
of those who would listen
to the beat of the hunters
footstep. Even autumns
debris holds it’s tongue
to leave
the knowing groan of day
light hearts to face the sighs
of blades through bone.
The tears of the sun will rise
alone to the wails
of bloodied trees.
