The king's sword dangles in its sheath.
From the shore, he surveys the land:
Shaded sketches of faces, obsidian gargoyles;
Ashen foam crowds along the sand, painted in white.
In graphite, drifting boats are drawn by the thousands—
Swarms like a storm cloud gathering over the surface;
Ripples in a pond of a thousand meters.
The messenger watches him with a crow’s eye.
The sun blots out the sky,
Ink tendrils reaching the edge of the man’s vision;
A mask of vengeance tears at his skin.
The revenant’s stare.
The king is alone.
His face means nothing here;
His time an echo now.