the game sings

The Game whispers in your ear, run. Run fast, run hard, run like the end of everything beautiful and terrible and known is chasing you down because it is. You hear their paws of ivory and mud pound on the hollow ground like war drums and the steps of a dance so ancient and nameless you scarce can think it. The game sings to your face made of wax and clay of they who spark and shadow and bury and drown and burn and fall and twist and hunt and die. Your insides scream and squirm. Squishing and squeezing to be let out. To pour over the ground that reaches up to take them with grass like razors. Your mind tearing through itself with the incredible weight of knowing what dogs your steps. It too begs to spill like paint across the canvas that is the grass of greenest green and full of hate. Your skin of lies and paper wishes nothing more then to slough off and so you hold it in pace with hands whose brittle bone and rotting muscles are caged by gloves of bloodied cotton, jailers to the body that wants nothing more than to fall apart in a mixing mess of flesh and innards. And Still the game sings. A long forgotten melody of the endless end that never was. The beast who's corkscrew maw is made of plastic starlight. Their broad and sleek body, one of violet velvet and fox fur, their carapace of finest sterling silver and stolen skin hardened in molten hot movement crackling with the chase. The game. Winding and pivoting through gypsum trees, cloven hooves pounding along the grass that cracks and breaks and snaps like brittle rusted iron. Crunching under paw and boot like radio static. Singing of the day in which they will catch you. Your teeth howl with a pain you can feel from the back of your eyes to the soles of your feet, trapped by boots of blue bottle glass, a mushy, spongey soup under clouded clear. The yellowed Alabama ivory dribbles down your face with the black and Beady crawling that made them that way. They sing with the joy of flight and freedom, welcomed by the grass with cleavers and saws promising pain with no relief of death. all while that organ piping, howling, disjointed, twisting, turning, mindless madness that is the song that is that dance that is the game whispers that you must run.