The dead man walks nameless, with flesh forged in shadow and mud. Your bones shatter memories that the world buried without a tear.
Eyes, empty wells, they don't notice, they don't pay attention, they don't wait around.
They are only trembling with the echo
of a soul that no longer was.
Clothed in the rags of time, with night stitched to his chest, he drags the weight of the world like a fallen and destroyed god.
There is no tomb to claim him, nor a cross to redeem him, he is the ruin that breathes,
the abyss with saliva.
And when the wind names him, when silence invokes him. The hunger of oblivion rises with its crown of flies.