Evil descends, dealing death beneath my protection; spitting crimson onto cobblestones, staining their age worn surface.
Thunderheads swell in the thick midnight sky; belching anger from their gullets, cleansing the time-honored ritual.
Pulsing beneath the damp stone surface, latent life resides, drinking the remnants of death, gathering and spreading strength.
A telltale flicker, a street lamp breathes. Flushing rust from its cast iron skin, it blackens, splashing healing light across the wasting stones, pushing youth into their haggard grey pores.
Shadows scatter across a building’s façade, fleeing over decayed trim, darting between shards of shattered reflections.
High above the pursuing light, they seek sanctuary. Spilling through the aperture’s void, his mass reforms; rising from scraps of blackened mist, driving light from his core.
Satisfied, he lingers only for a moment.
His offering accepted; he drops into darkness.