My feet were splintered and cracked from crawling in the broken trees,
but still I stood and stared through the wooden beams
to see far below me, to gaze into the eyes of the howling beasts.

I hoped desperately that they not see me,
but their heads flashed upwards and their tongues pulled me from my perch.
I could hear every word now, trapped underneath their fumbling feet.
They moved slowly over me, working meticulously.

I waited for the evening, when the dying rays of the sun sank into the tile from the doorway,
and when they would vanish melt into the darkness of his shadow.
I wait and wait some days, but they never melt just right,
instead only turning the whole world into night.

His shadow doesn't arrive sometimes for days and nights,
sometimes, though, it takes months and once a year,
but every day I long to hear,
his rough and Southern drawl,
whether it be telling me that I am queer
or small.

Most days I do not care what it is he'll do or say,
I only care that he is there, and that he will make the monsters go away.