The misty morning moaned through great spiritual fogs, while the dogs lay exhausted on the tombstone curbs. A black car crept and the driver had no hands. In the purple screaming clouds were the faces of a thousand dead birds, hawking about, calling inscrutable names, grasping at imaginary worms from the trees of the burning wood.
Where have I gone?
The grey meandering man licked his lips as sullen death encapsulated the brittle bones and every step was bringing him closer to the ashen ground from whence the monsters came. A phosphorescent haze would whirl and dance in sweet contortions, a dance for the dead, as the night fought day with ecstatic swords.

The sun is crying.
The son is crying.

Halt for the watchmen, bats in hand and gloves hanging from belt loops. Halt while the lands are molested and the peasant sneers at waves that hum and bring about simultaneous life and death.

Open the door! Open it wide.
Life is the eternally beating drum
The drum from which we hide.