A cold wind blows from a titan’s tightening throat
Somewhere, a holding rope snaps
A robed one steps up, his neck unsnapped
The frayed ends of his broken noose hanging in his lap
His sits atop his appaloosa mount, canters into a gallop
He is gallant and turns his gathered into zealots
They paint his image, his grim visage, on the rounded walls of caverns
Which dwarves made with hammers when the world was still managed
And man still in his manger, a danger to himself and everything
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment