Thistlecrown

I am a spark in the eye of the lion

A world in the palm of God's hand

I am a tremor in the lips of the innocent

A stutter in the step of the determined

A note scratched in coal shadows at the edge of the horizon

The prose curdled at the corner of the devouring mouth of dawn

These are the nights we weigh hastily against years

The dreams we vacate quietly for nightmares

I will sleep, I fear, far longer than I need down here

I am the glint of an ember at the core of dying fires

The quiet reminder of life encompassed by cool fingers

I am the devil clawing at dear Mary's shoulder

A collection of blood-stained flesh hypnotized by past glories

A betrayal of breath, a lurid death, a sugary aftertaste to the bitterest poison

The layers of flesh pressed between sheets of resurfacing oceans

These are the lights we kill nonchalantly

The bloody respite from the peace of the evening

I will expose, I fear, far too much to remain here

I am a meal in the eye of the lion

I am the muscle before the flesh

I am the filth beneath the fingertips of deities

I am the ember in the lives of the subconscious

A predilection towards the scarred flesh of the truly blessed

A tender missive carved into the backs of the oppressed

These are the eyes that have burned relentless

That have commissioned confession from the sleeping giants

I will live, I fear, far too long before they find me here.