Indigo spilled through the arid cradle

across scabbed lakebeds
their life long ago robbed
by errant dust devils
sniggering back to their grottoes
in the barren foothills

through seemingly dead hands
eternally arthritic
arched up, and into
the earth-filled wind of creation
scouring the impurities from the land

past the aeon-old titans
clinging to thier final mountainous footholds
weary from their trek from the Tide
ready to descend into the valley
to die with the dawn

in every hidden oasis of life
every subtle warren and clandestine nest
where the small things, with every painful breath
prove that existence
is worth struggling for

and out, under the broken edges of the sky
whose shattered glass fell ages ago
a septillion points of light
ground by the endless cycle
back into the loam


but where Indigo goes so too goes her keeper
mounting the cradle, flooding the valley
hidden in their woven coffins, their buried crypts
the small things bowed thier heads,
and the land fell silent


the malevolent sentinel had come


monarch of the pit, lord of the ******
soaring to his azure font of judgement
culling by flame those creatures found most wanting
for this is his domain, it's denizens whisper: fed by the Hell-born river

until he dies once more
his dirt choked blood spilling into the horizon
trickling down the desert's spine
followed by the silent chime of stars,
and a resurgence of life,


waiting for thier own lord to rise


it's here you will find him
atop the granite seat that breaks the basin floor
the man with evergreen eyes

having found when facing North

the Moon is always at his back