The Will of the Cursed
We have walked on the ashes of brothers
and sisters,
of fathers and mothers,
and held in hand a dying torch,
trying to offer light when the light is a dying core.
The tongue of a dragon spits venomous ire,
fissures opened by the mere whisper of words,
a lake of sulfur brought in flesh form a fire,
creatures bent, men broken by curse.
We have spoken with the breaths of others,
of the dying,
of the living and each other,
and made a map upon our skin,
writing directions with blood, the only ink for our pens.
The shield of a nurtured faith drowns every year,
until treacherous stones are made smooth and crevices are pursed,
and offered within our weeping, the air is made clear,
and within the battle men rise from the Cursed.
Weather strays from the conflicted,
sinister,
and malevolent and wicked,
but the will of the flying torch
imprisons the shadows within their receding course.
Creatures bent, men broken by curse
have spoken out from the shade of the hearse,
and the ashes of brothers
and sisters,
of fathers and mothers,
place in sand the dying roar
and sew the crevices until they are no more.
2.26.2013