Suspended belief, like unsettled dust in dark corners of mind, tempt me to breathe. The pain subsides as I dare to hope the worst has passed.
I remember my bloody knees and innocent heart between my teeth as I whispered prayers with hands bound and eyes shut tight.
Decades have passed and still the ink stains my skin with tell-tale sigils seared, while I hope someone, somewhere, might know what they mean.
As I count my scars and most trusted allies, placing tokens of loyalty in deep pockets, I wonder who will sing the dirges of Winter this year.
Here I grip my weapon, a beloved heirloom passed down the lineages of genocide and the shadows of power, blessed by the Bishop Prince.
Dare I trust the turning tide? If the darkness turns light, might I forget how to fight?
Hunger grips my bones while the winds whip my soul. I have held my mind steady like a ghost ship under Huracan.
I fear I have survived, but why?
You have broken the curse.
I peer down the crossroads under Priestess’ Moonlight, the tracks of my shadow, donkey hooves and cum stains on the sacred red dirt.
Prophet’s poetry manifests like the warmth of my breath.
What is the meaning of this?
I continue along my path with this song in my heart, like a needle in the night, I remember.