Old black tusks ripped off of the beast
at the bank of the swamp and carved
into statues of arthritic
Gods or the handles of blunt swords
that you'll one day run upon
with your eyes covered in moss
Shot down in it's sleep
The big game of the world
wide garbage heap
You mounted it's head on your wall
The prize Hollowed out eyes
mold in the cracks of it's skull
The fur is matted with blood
and it's tongue wet with mother's milk
Gates opened wide and bedlam came
Wise men were forced
into a layman's trade
With nothing but time chaos reigns
A great quiet has followed you to here
A blustering wind with nothing of
worth in it's heart or hands
Your legacy is
a dull catalogue of common things
You've never even seen the blood
you've drawn or looked in the eyes of
the kill you claim was yours before
taking your picture with it