I march through the woods, darkened by my hands.
Chained to others who are similarly damned.
The carrion call of flesh exhales out through morning mist.
The gallows drag us by its chained tongue tightened around our wrists.
Mud spattered high on the imposing wooden frame.
A reminder of the life I chose to take, what I became.
I am to face the death deemed fit for my crimes.
A bell toll of my end, crescendoing chimes.
I stand shoulder to shoulder with men much safer than I.
As they have not seen what I have seen with these cold dead eyes.
The rope tightened around my neck feels oddly comforting in light of the blood on my hands.
I lose this life happily knowing the things that breed beneath these lands.
Anticipation is overflowing by the time I drop.
But there is no neck snap, to lifeless flop.
I hang in the air, by a rope that should have ended me.
The crowd is in awe, begging for answers how this could be.
They yell and proclaim, “The devil inhabits him, I have no doubt!’
Despite my current state I respond,
“It’s not the devil you should be worried about.”
Sacrifice is needed to slip beyond.
“I killed not for the pleasure, but to get them to respond.”
One scared woman asks, “Who?”
A rope digs in, despite it I struggle through.
“Old things that live in older places.”
“They infest time and unknowable spaces.”
“To know them is to truly see the divine.”
“Perfection is in their Aberrant thoughts and design.”
With a final breath my soul leaves.
But I stay aware of what the old ones use me to conceive.
I am but a vessel for a beautiful thing.
It rips its way from my abdomen, letting my viscera swing.
Even through it all I remain to see beyond its birth.
Using my meat as material, stitched flesh of worth.
A beautiful cephalopodic something new.
Rearranging ignorance like our flesh, into something true.
Something so much more than me, more than you.