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.