Dolos, Human Lice

Icy stares and a blood-red glare in the tinted glass Fiction lies through slit-line eyes, call it a holograph Raining down like a votive of fire The hollow heart of a ghost empire Savage heat and deathless deceit in the aftermath I call him Dolos He calls me human lice Artifacts of highwire acts now span empty space What remains scatters to the plains like some feudal waste The master has been called away And Veritas is carved from clay One walks on while the other is gone like the empty vase I call him Dolos He calls me human lice I call him Dolos Staring back with undead eyes Stuff him in the tholos And dance upon the muffled cries