Janissaries of the Castellan

She breathes with the waves,
quietly in, quietly out.
Dry-mouthed, defenceless,
she tries to focus beyond
the missing. The horizon
ripples, pacific, tranquil,
but she feels them coming.
Hooves menace the periphery.

Shard castles, their blackened
crenellations skewering the sky,
shimmer at the edge of vision.
Foundations retch.
Sun-splintered scimitars fracture
the air, there is no purview
left untouched.
Split-blind she bows her head.

Ten thousand Janissaries,
with whetted blades
and saw-edged purpose,
chisel the air
to jittery polyhedra.
She shivers, spitted
on the jags of indifferent pain.
There can only be submission.