Pipe Dreams

In this living hell
past the darkest pits
where the cold grasps and drafts
feed on those that wait.
There is a mound home to
a broken hilt that lies
upon a stone slab
festering with moss and
wicked things that skitter
and creep like the sun over
hills where the darkness doesn’t dwell.
It might take years until you can
start anew, but four years past
drives men toward
slow stagnant loathing
until the Superior calls,
and you wash away
those childish pipe dreams.