Lion Head Mesa Disinterested eyes

merrick looked forever at the line of mountains.
there was no loneliness in him. there was a suspended sense of sorrow, but its cobweb edges had been blown away by the air of maddened focus that encircled merrick as if it were a crown of thorns.
this place was filled too far with coyote. they reminded him of his own blood; of the ones he had maimed and tortured and killed, both alone and with those he loved — or once had.
his teeth gnashed in the night for their scent, for but one to feed his fevered lust until he might truly feast;
and now he found himself tormented and hunting in daytime light for something else.
the wind brought the man the dusty scent of gathered herbs and he veered toward it, mindless.