Here, the path ends. Cut-off where poetry
Would be killed in another step. Like
Socrates drinking hemlock. He pretends
To be friend to friend, but there is nothing,
Just wickedness under a hat, asking over
And over for me to suck pollution
From his giving hands. We could have
Ruled the Kings in poverty of our souls.
But no. But no, it's time for him to go.
I hope the image of an empty cliff-edge,
Is the last thing his eyes pretend to see,
Before he's dashed upon the rocks.
The Wendigo made the sky misty and cold.