We wait shamelessly around our Autumn god.
Trading our power for gifts of rot and decay. Prancing around in fleshless masks of our ancestors
who have come and passed. Our head are decorated with bloodied antlers, as if we have fought
a long and hard war. Our very pelts, they rot in many places, causing stains of scarlet to color
the forest floor. Yet we dance around him, at the times he awakes, at the times he decided that
he can waste his precious time on followers like us. We thank him for his reek of death, and
temporary sickness passed to our tiring bodies. Like mindless creatures, we gather close. In hope
we may get a touch or a gift. We nestle beside him, not fully sleeping. Just waiting until he decides
to wake up and grace up with a dance.
When he does, we follow along like puppets on a string.
Sunlight has become foreign to us, and fog our new home.