cross grama of golden threads
august, feral and prime
his domain
never in question
his gait
a sublime promenade of hautelure
for all those who view the march of minions
know the king is nigh and merciless
the world a'hushed
not even the wind would dare
nor sound nor scent
to devour his path
the awed
halt and whimper with dread
as he does not bother to cede
and when his course descends
to the edge of umber and lead
the stripes fade to shade
sifted through the brack's stutter
with all that is seen
of those eyes of a casualty rent
look forth into a grave's dawning
plundered
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