Fall

From a series of assassins called The Seasons.

Fall

From who else do we call
It expects us to crawl
Grovel?
On the dirt as its kind does walls

Proximate adversaries
Impending drought
We fight through fright
Souls brimmed with doubt

Weary eyes among our people
Prayer, totems, steeples

Bow!

It comes at night
Out of sight
Who leads them, dead
Bedeviled right