Slobber on his shovel; this old man shits nothing.
Naked and shaking; his begging lips crack.
He swallows his honey, swinging his lanterns;
but piercing his darkness: two button eyes –
rimmed golden; reflections of want glazing his jowl.

His shadows birth those dregs swallowed.
Hounding sweet truth, his lanterns in hand.
Shine they do not, but gulp and lick that
waste remaining; unknown, still crunching.

Abandoned; submerged in sweet mud;
black tendrils seize his eyes; gifting
malice in atrophy. His body contorts,
breath reeking for more, as he hounds
for things once owned.

A shovel, in hand, smoulders to nothing.
Reaching for lanterns; pulling just darkness.
Confusion and pain besets heart smoking,
soon to ooze in drool.

No shovel in hand, the motions still follow.
Gold eyes keep steaming, ever in darkness;
Slurping charred fingers; chewing burnt honey;
swallowing all once made with purpose.