As if I were forlorn I fell, and fall,
Through summer, winter's crawl. The seasons fled,
In pull and pall, while Death's cold breath chilled all–
Until e'en the sun was black, not red.
I dreamt I slept in dark and woke in dark,
And woke but did not dream, the earth was gone,
No moon, nor stars, did pock the night's high arc–
But in gray shadow-light saw I a fawn,
And with a knife of silver bright, I cut
Under her fur, warm flesh so soft and ripe,
And sliced away through innocence and gut
Till none was left, not less a spit of tripe.
Thus day by day I slaughtered life–until
One morn like night–I found no blood to spill.
Sommer Nectarhoff is a writer from Chicago. He's always loved to read and write both fiction and poetry. His shorter pieces have been published in a variety of literary journals, and he is the author of numerous books to date, including the fantasy series The Book of Lokk.