Hand in hand they walked in their filthy tatters, through the world blasted parched and barren and bleak, tears fall in quiet traces down a soot strewn cheek, until they also are spent in their dry riverbeds,
Distant moon, bone white, thrown shrouds of dust whorl over, moving like phantoms, silent and stretched and strewn with a sunken ribcage hollow, full only of briars and memory,
The fire, then, cradled between their crossed palms, would be a singular artery, making its slow circulation across the cadaverous earth, roads pocked before them, broken by the hammers of fallen titans,
And by this fragile dichotomy, family without home, love without comfort, beyond the fire itself, which illumined this tremulous trek from oblivion to oblivion, with only each other's eyes to steer by in these floods of dark