I walked the steps that Aramais built,
His bones settling still in the dampness of the dream.
My mouth was hidden in dry wrappings of the dead,
For the shroud hid that which Unspoken covet so.
In my hands I carried the only weapons permitted,
The pen and book,
For those like me,
Chroniclers from the Skin of the World,
We avoid the horror of this land ‘neath,
With the sultry promise of immortality,
And the desperate wish to be remembered.
By appeasing the Flesh-that-Walks,
and the never-born Black Sun,
I can glance the true Deep of my own soul,
Which takes the shape of a drop of blood,
Falling endlessly like my own tears.
In this horror-land,
Where ancient gods walk to die,
I will find myself.
Prompt: from the kind writers over at the pub, dVerse, “Fear” as part of their Haibun Monday Series.