Withered and ashen gray,
curled beneath full moonlight,
the wind whispers incessant seductions,
while midnight rivers drain of blood,
and the scent of a fresh kill taints the air.
In the distance coyotes are calling.
Who or where is as equally our question as theirs.
Beneath them is the sound of even-further waves,
they crest with crescendo, their sea a symphony.
Between here and there is all reality,
but if no-one is there to witness it,
Thus men of faith, religion,
pay homage to imagined creatures,
so that it might forever remain.
There is something to be said here of hope,
belief its benefactor, life its assassin.
So that it might meet reality, too, in the end.
But the abyss is wide,
Serpents’ forked tongues can sense death on the air,
like crimson blood tainting white wine.
There are no secrets to life.
No greater meaning.
There is only existence and those that exist.
Take heed this lesson.
For no meaning,
is true freedom.
We are bound by no shackles.