The War of One
It waits.
Savoring the darkness
Around Itself from which
It came.
But that ordinary fabric of night
Cannot even begin to rival
The stuff from which this
Creature was made.
It does not belong here,
But oddly, does not seem out of place
Amongst this forest of perpetual night,
Where the blasted dreams of another
Age raise their gnarled limbs beseechingly towards
The heavens in a futile gesture, even as their wasted bodies
Rip free of their corrupted roots and crash to the ground defeated, dead.
In this place It chose to be born.
It has no mother but rather forced Itself into existence
By a supreme act of will,
Spewed forth onto this desolate ground in a putrid wash of
Malevolence and hate and icy rage.
Through this bleak mindscape It stalks,
Carrying no scythe but recognizable nonetheless.
It’s only purpose to rend and tear and lay waste to all things,
To crush and smash and bleed the last dying spark from the tiniest
Scrap of hope until none remains.
Then It will wait, silent and watchful.
And when It witnesses that last glorious shrug of resignation,
And hears that last quivering sigh of breath before all falls to silence,
I, satisfied with what I have wrought, will be no more.
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