On a black river, I race toward the waning light.
Westward, burning, the smoky clouds breathing their last.
My carriage vibrates on the shallow water,
the wheels wanting to break, but lacking the will.
There are others besides me, but there are none.
I am alone here, but for one.
A dusk-born bat, I see nothing, and feel everything.
Flying, wings biting at the dark, nothing slows me.
At the witching hour, to a theme which shakes the world,
Sweating. Aching. Hellbent.
At the black river’s end, everything.