by Karim Attia.

Veins of night wax upon the petrified river,
Limbs mingle to arch and make way.

Gibbous light dares only slight touch upon Grendel’s meer,
Makes black the pale corpses of summer’s green children.

Bodies thin and twisted a tale of joyless life,
Numberless crows call this carnage home and bicker over the bones.

Into the night they curse without cease until sudden silence.

A door closes on the noises of the night.

But whose grip upon the handle?