Gone are the vanities of yesterday.
I'd lost myself in visceral volcanoes spewing forth the molten ash of pretense
~ my ruptured soul erupting abruptly everyday and everynight.

Why the fragile faun must lay vulnerable under the dark circling sky, overcast as vultures spy their prey.  
The smell of fresh blood, the open wound ~ the end of days and innocence.

The birth of something sinister to survive in a world of eat or be eaten.
One day if hope prevails, the wound will heal and the mask may be removed to reveal the faun who once was ~ may now live again.
A gentle creature of grace and fortitude. AMEN