I sit atop a throne of bones.
They yellow and crack under my immensity.
The smell of marrow wafts up in brown waves, and I lick the air.
Beneath my right palm is a hip once belonging to a man named Ezekiel. He never did me any wrong, yet I slew him just the same.
Dusk seeps between granite stones that once saw demons astride men like master and horse. I long for those days, and the inky black of the Night comforts me.
Toes trip over each other as someone races into the room. My eyes remain shut; the crunchy bare feet of my servant identifies him enough. Then the wet thunk of his knees meeting the floor, and he waits. Breath torn into sheets, the servant tries to regain his composure.