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Fearful LoveTo Sam Vaknin's next piece

The Old Gods Wander

Your promised lands
with reticence.
Grey, forced benevolence.
They shrug their crumpled robes,
extend in veinous hand
black cornucopia.
You're fighting back, it's evident,
bony protrusions, a thumping chest,
the clamming up of sweaty pearls.
They aim at your Olympian head.
There, in the meadows of your mind,
grazing on dewy hurt,
they defecate a premonition
of impending doom.