Bloated bodies
Full of hot air tumble
Down hills cloaked
In inky shadow. The evening stinks
Of shame and festered regret
That spurts from their pores.
And the townsfolk hide. Death,
They think, comes pouring
Down the sloped mounds
Outside their homes
Where fires burn in stone chimneys
And smoke pours up into the sky
While the bodies moan
In personal toil.
He Who Wanders 