The Army of Footless Legs

Amid the footless legs,
the armies of the stalk,
at the very beating bloodless heart
the shadowed figures walk.

They crawl in crooked circles,
clinging to the lips
of the never ending, never started,
vacant, blackened pit.

I step into the hollow
the footless legs avert the stars,
the silver dew illuminates
what was veiled from afar.

The shadow figures twist
and heave a burdened sigh
as they clamber near erratically
and raise their fingers to the sky.

They resemble merely humans,
with exception of the mouth,
for where the cavern should have rested,
flesh stretched north to south.

In the postmortem silence
of the voiceless shadow tribe,
I ran until the tar convulsed
accepting morning’s bribe.

As I peer across the army
of the countless footless legs,
I can never glimpse the hollow
where the shadow figures beg.