EVERY TIME I DIE – A Wild, Shameless Plain

Old black tusks ripped off of the beast at the bank of the swamp and carved
into statues of arthritic Gods or the handles of blunt swords that you’ll one
day run upon, with your eyes covered in moss. Shot down in it’s sleep. The big
game of the world wide garbage heap. You mounted it’s head on your wall. The
prize? Hollowed out eyes, mold in the cracks of it’s skull. The fur is matted
with blood and it’s tongue wet with mother’s milk. Gates opened wide and bedlam
came. Wise men were forced into a layman’s trade. With nothing but time, chaos
reigns. A great quiet has followed you to here. A blustering wind with nothing
of worth in it’s heart or hands. Your legacy is “a dull catalogue of common
things.” You’ve never even seen the blood you’ve drawn or looked in the eyes of
the kill you claim was yours before taking your picture with it.