A blood-stained pink chanel suit hung from haywire above pickets,
His hands, marred with shells of a pine beetle. Essence
Had eluded him, its aroma clouded his mind, collecting at the base
Of tangled membrane.
Before the rain began, the thin veil of night seemed to tear apart;
Leaving the grouse to awaken and migrate early that dawn.
Svengali, they called him, eyes as deep as the maroon lake
Yet clouded with boats of dull jade and sapphire.
It took time for the foliage that had fallen to the ground
To reintroduce themselves back into the soil, becoming skeletons before dust.
Summer had arrived, and
The gray beard had set foot on the sandy dunes,
The echo of his boots rung flagrantly throughout the locked pines.
His adage became a trite set of words, repeated
Like the hammer against the iron smith’s sword
A pyrrhic victory had hung the severed fingers of his victims along his neck,
As though they were kukui nuts dangling from a lei.
The forest had swallowed his prey entirely, the distant calling of distress
From the boys at the other end of the beach became increasingly pressing.
Soon after, the light above the suit had simmered to an ember,
And the rain had begun to fall.