There were animals. They came to me

with their bloodstained murmurs 
choking the night, the weight of misery

a gloom in their throats. Beasts of all 
shapes and mythologies scratching

at the soil around my grave, each one 
driven by its own unique hunger

but all intent on writing my end.
I can almost run my fingers through

the sun-streaked strands of those days,
when I was nothing but a silhouette

disappearing into fog – just a sketch. 
I could step into a crowd and never

resurface. No one would suspect a thing.