Remnant – Mark Thompson

Mark Thompson

Th!ngs so dark

Things that are Dark

Things that are dark, dark things

in the night bellow and sigh.

Things that are dark, dark things,

light will not mix with their eyes.

On top of cliffs, they whisper,

within the forest deep, they slurp

casting off skin from dead tissue:

flying over shadowy graves,

chasing toads, back to brooks.

They hover — ebb within, salty air,

chanting with the wind’s echoes;

searching for a void—victims,

to imprint their deadly whims.

Things that are dark, dark things,

I do not know their names

they weave their webs in silence

and have no blood, in their face.