I am but an ancient thought a drift upon the landscape of man, alive in intention drawn by the quick fire of desire. Arriving by carriage upon a spot so distant from lands end where spirited muses silhouette the nightscape in their own farewell dance.
Leaves rustle over head I wait. My breath moistens the tattered cloth about my mouth the smell of rotten flesh impregnates the wet air, and I wait.
Black against the night sky coarse coats of silken hair, prodding the earth moist even breath, heartbeats, heartbeats, and I wait holding back on the reins.
It is not long before my reward has made a call, drinking by the water’s edge dipping its claws in the cool water, tossing it over its blood stained head and I wait.
I lift my crossbow and take aim it smells the mares it smells the rotten flesh of my breath. I steady my soul, the wind rushes from the quick gash in my throat- peering into its dead eyes, I smile knowing how I died, and it waits.