Ruined King

I don’t grieve.

I don’t weep—

I’m not afraid of you,

The mass of darkness is shattered.

Having defeated the army of death

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The darkness has a king, wickedly

smart, crown ringed with black holes—

look too close or too long and

enter the precipice before you have time

to think about jumping.

Like a blackness sweeping, older

than something as trivial

as the Milky Way or Orion’s

taut belt. As real as the cosmos.

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As undiscovered as its stars.

The king’s pull is undeniable

and thirsty, separating my blood

from my bones, even though my

body lingers on the threshold

of the weary Earth.

Humans, the just or fierce or crooked,

should not dwell here. A grinning void,

without body but full of form

and vicious, vindictive intent,

like a bloody, battered scepter.

Snake with heads like thorns

and bites that level cities. A dark

like this could eclipse eternity,

and the hunger could devour

the billions alive and already passed.

Maybe it already has. The king

is turning to face me, and I shudder

before I see a limb or feature.

Tidal waves shouldn’t have intelligence.

Dead kings should have a resting place.

The absence of sound falls, shudders like bass.

It will scorn me soon, something I cannot

face. Let me kick towards the door,

rip it off ancient hinges squealing like birth

and burst into the burning, blazing light.

Light pulls harder than death, leaves skid marks.