He hails from Freezeburn Swamps,
a place where rock bottom
is just another ledge,
on the way to another nameless bog hole.
He’s not granted death.
He drowns again,
in the flood of his own
rising and raining blood.
He lives in the cold,
a cold where sheets of ice
as hammer proof as granite
are sought like thermal blankets.
Black dogs roam freely,
across withered tundra,
their fetid breathe asphyxiating the weak.
Anthrax powder in mother’s milk,
is the most benign wish of their ilk.