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.


The descent into hell begins.

Please fasten your seat belts

Over decrepit bones.

Direct your sockets


Not into your phones.

Fear not the demons,

The fiery cauldrons,

As you are already dead.

Dread only your fellow passengers

On the road ahead.

There is no return ticket

On this hellish ride.

Only the smoldering memories

Of your haunted pride.