Invasion

Writing without a mind and sketching into the past Filling the canvas with swathes of green, erasing the blunt edges of lead and patching up mistakes with splashes of white. Creepers that twine out at last slinking onto territories it coveted. A capite ad calcem, where you dine, on the bed. Doodling with hands that respire tawny bits of broken limestone. The fort is down, the phantom still. As it drivels aloud stories of dust and wobbles past glare. A million boots that had darkened laying bare of acrylic before it could colour expanses. The lowering of the gates, another chapter of Trojan will but not quite mistaken this time. The phantom still lingers past the ruins at breezy nights. Learning blackened arts of tantra and carbon-dating to peep into any life of the fort. He sheds his body after every chapter in gore. He has shed many bodies since then. Sometimes on horse back, sometimes defending the gates. Stinking exhaustion thrown in swamps that now stores his bones. Selling his parts and his whole to those tales of yore Where births are unwilling and ends are festivals of growth alone. .