Mine is a sad saga not a horror story perhaps a terrible poem
like all true fiction it deals with ugly reality good and evil
not black and white but the vast gray realm in between,
blood-stained earth from which dark legacies grow
poison vines with pretty flowers.
In the primeval forests from which we sprang
we first tasted the flesh of animals.
We cultivated fruits of the land
planted crops and stacked stones to great heights,
fell to our knees beneath long shadows of high obelisks.
We still inhabit these places huddled tightly together
telling each other stories of our past lives,
how there was wine and song sadness and suffering too.
What I beheld in the king’s crimson court of last resort
it was given me to tell.
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