The Spotted Hand

These old hands are cracked and flecked with brown spots like the spotted underbelly of an old dog. I’ve killed with these hands, in the name of one called king.

My back is bent and my bones feel hollow yet frozen In place, like a dying tree. I shouldn’t complain.

Only a few of us are lucky enough to live this long. God suffers no fools nor does he spare the saints from the same bitter ends. It rains on us all.

I miss the strength I once had. I miss how it felt to break bones and how it felt to make love. My cock is a useless appendage to me now.

I feel that death is upon me, and I welcome him like a long forgotten friend. I am all that is left of my kin.

The pleasures of this world leave a horrible taste in my mouth. The apple tastes like ash and the once delectable meat like old blood.

Will god embrace me as a wise old man, or the great warrior I once was? I am haunted by their faces.

I lay down in a grove of trees, I don’t mind the cold. Autumn is a good time to die. The blanket of winter will soon be upon me.

My body will be for the wolves, a sacrifice I am willing to make. I’m just a meat sack and I’ve killed so many.

Laying here in the cold, I look to the night’s sky and breath one last visible breath. Let the darkness take me back into her womb.