I present here two poems, each with its own perspective of the same situation.

Not a silver of shadow filtered through
the somber hazel dust of ravaged decrepit furniture.
Not a whisper in the wind
but a piercing intermingling odor
of decaying exoskeletons
and bloodied indigo flesh.

It is havoc at peace.

Sons of Illith lying
over Kepheran brothers
in an (almost) bittersweet
harmony-
whimper,
breaking into a soft cry and
Silence.

I shut my fierce eyes.

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All feelers attuned to the one armed Illithoid
staring into the dank slaughter
from the ripped door,
dripping crimson from the waist
down where an intestinal inner worm
trailed incumbent.

An unnerving silence.

Survivor of Illith barely erect
believing finality;
naked as a child-
whimper
by my side sickeningly and
Silence following a psychic blade to
the head.

He’s next.