Lone berserker…a fortnight dead…
Stiff in a bed of dry leaves…
Shocks of red tendril bursting
From lineaments of terror…
Aghast, you fathom, mouthful of dirt,
No tongue in your head.
A fortnight ago,
You scarfed pig knuckle and bashed a tankard
On the head of an old peasant;
Your vassals roared with laughter.
He died the next day,
You brandished cudgel and ate swine offal,
Your eyes smoldered in battle…
Lopping stalks of flesh…
Thrashing armored onslaughts…
Choking on the fumes of battle,
You winced at the taste of sulfur,
Your voice was drowned in the din.
A fortnight ago,
Your nostrils flared hairs fierce and crimson,
But your voice was soft and weak.
A gash splayed panic across your face,
But your hands were free from callous.
That night, a man cowered in your shadow
And your throat grew tight,
And you trembled, eyes quavered,
And he was severed clean.
A fortnight ago, a virgin you ravished,
Her neck dithered in your hold,
Eyes glazed in the moonlight,
She screeched and scratched and begged.
And with her last wheezing breaths
She made one final wheezing plea.
And weak as she was, she couldn’t grip
Not even the dirt or speak but a word.
You crushed her head with a rock.
Lone berserker, a fortnight dead,
Carrion fraught with vermin.
In your last moments you fathomed
All that you feared: The far-flung stars…
The yawning night…The swarthy man
Who strummed ancient chords on
An ancient instrument on an unknown
Island in the waning dusk.
He you spared…He was your end.
You lived in revelry,
You reveled in daybreak,
And when day broke, you swilled mead,
And when you swilled mead,
You spilled blood, And now your body,
Drained of its humors, makes of its bones
A world for the vermin.
They will not go hungry.
