The
chicken-man dances to
the
devil's metal roar. Fury beats
in
his sweaty yellow feathers,
flying
in the wind. What kind of nightmare
wrought
such a creature, that seeks
the
company of hulking heathens
and
scrawny skeletons, writhing long
into
the dark? He has no need for the
sickening
light of two-faced love.
A
book of bones is his temple,
after
all the pages have been burned.
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