One for the road

O dweller of wuthering aeons and blood-encrusted steel,
silhouette forged from smokeless fire:
stand tall amidst the bustling writhering
of sleek parasites carving evermore grim runes
on the slopes of arid and rugose bosoms
festooned by the comatose dregs of the world;
horizons are cluttered,
the wind directions in disarray like corpses
hanging about galeblown gallows:
steer clear from their bacchanales,
take no heart of distant shorelines -
the eye of the storm is one and ubiquitous,
once the rage wavers and fades into
oblivion.