The mother's hand, sixteen

Before the light heads down the last fire submersed into the ground
Sentinels are sleeping
We escape into lands below, where all is blind and the old man never grows
Sound work in vision creating color and mist
Hounds crawl up from the sand, eyeless and rotten
Pets to guide him
Growing masses of insects spew from the pores of sanity
The sunset light goes down
The last fire submersed into the ground
Sentinels are sleeping. Rest easy, eternally