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.