Battles
Their avian battle blots out the sun.
Cloudburst, darkness and thunder.
The defeated tribes of Tophet drop,
their shrinking bodies bathed in nacre,
raining black-blood,
dying brilliantly,
like meteors.
The lesser beasts of Tophet
find the cadavers speared on oaks,
drowning in Acheron,
floating on the oily Cocytus,
being torn apart in the crocodile infested waters of Eridanos.
The black-soaked island smells like an invitation to flame,
a hungry flame,
an unquenchable flame.
Tophet’s pain has come ashore.
But the mauled victors are hiding in deep caverns.
Arson and death
shall wait for another day.
If you liked reading this, you might also enjoy Fallen Child.
Help The Writer’s Soup survive by sharing this work with your friends or by paying as little as a dollar on patreon.

