Baking inside the outside of the right side on the left side, the feast draws to a close. Such is the inevitable result of the small band, the small tribe even, taking to task on the little remains of such a delicacy. Soft to the touch and ripe for the mouth, its nutrients seep deep into the creep of their sleep.
Expanding beyond the evermore that consumes their life, the visions and dreams scare the younger set and petrify the older. Wild screams into the ether and back down their necks run the chill of bones.
On morning, they find their camp ground has too fed on the nectar of the subconcious release of fluids and tension. Lowering itself a few inches from the surrounds, the boundary drops to create a recess to hide under.
Dripping along the perimeter, entrails of the headless, made as warning by the enemy.
Written on Wednesday, 17 May 2006