my people lost

It's a savage thing no longer hiding in obscurity but hulking and bristling its silhouette, gangly and malformed in front of the great door, the chaos gate. The mouths of the many as if fresh slices in tree trunks, spew their viscous tar onto my polished pearl floor. Faces pushing up through the film, painted slick black oil and ooze moaning and wailing veiling their call of vengeance of bloodlust. The jackal's savage head unshackled now claws splayed and bending down with craggy maw and open gullet to lick and slurp that stuff and smile at me so hideously it makes me want to hate. Can't you see? Don't feed the beast.