Old black tusks ripped off of the beast at the bank of the swamp and carved

Into statues of arthritic gods or the handles of blunt swords that you'll one day run upon,

With your eyes covered in moss. shot down in it's sleep.

The big game of the world wide garbage heap.

You mounted it's head on your wall.

The prize? hollowed out eyes, mold in the cracks of it's skull.

The fur is matted with blood and it's tongue wet with mother's milk.

Gates opened wide and bedlam came.

Wise men were forced into a layman's trade.

With nothing but time, chaos reigns.

A great quiet has followed you to here.

A blustering wind with nothing of worth in it's heart or hands.

Your legacy is "a dull catalogue of common things."

You've never even seen the blood you've drawn or looked in the eyes of the kill you claim was yours before taking your picture with it.