No. 168

I found myself somewhere near a small campfire, within the dessert plains of an African village.

It was there where I sat and I stared at the sigils and writings, ascribed to me by a black hooded figure.

Dark leathered skin of an osseous hand, ordained by bronze and gold.

"Your mother will never know illness again", the message was strung tight between hollowed twigs of sage.

I was encircled by the brushes of autumn, beneath the great dying sun when the lamb appeared.

It came to me, across the great space of unfathomable shade, only to pass me by.

Not before long, a tiger encroached with fear in sight, and it too passed me by.

From afar i saw, the silhouettes of those who climbed the mound...