He is awake.

They buried him upside down—head towards Hell, feet facing Heaven.  He bites and tears at the earth for hours before it gives.  They dug deep.  He breaks surface by the headstone, shattered by the fallen tree, its glyphs useless.

It is a beautiful day.  He sits under the azure blue sky and warms himself like some great benevolent lizard.  Damp, moss-covered wings unfurl and dry.  He likes the feeling, the sun's rays on his face.

Dusk.  A hot wind blows, bringing tidings of wet leaves and squashed insects.  The dead rise from their warm beds and squirm towards him on their bellies, like the worms that feed on them.  They are thirsty, so thirsty.

The crows sweep down, croaking like bullfrogs, rejoicing in the coming feast.

He has returned, to heal the world of this sickness called life.

The sun sets.

It will not rise again.