Capped in black, he standing sways.
Keening thunderfall scorns the air,
quakes the flatlands underfoot, while
his sea-legs loop lithely around loss.
As half-awake houses slouch cool,
mocking each other in secrecy,
he scurries behind the spine of vision
to greet the sacred hollows of his shame.
They line the empty streets in search,
burdened with despair,
as he lines his roots with angst
and writhes to the rhythms
of bitterly amplified pain.
The sun screams profanities
on days such as this.
When he rinses down the funnel
like a fabulous comet,
sucked into absence
by one greedy black hole.
And they give up their quest,
cut short
by the light
of dreaded day,
As he is bled away.
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