fletching on my fingers and
ribbon on my feet.
tying up my warped skin
in little bows, disguising
burns with beauty.
this is the song of the heartless,
the spit of a dry mouth,
cracking visions and dry
bones losing their crowns.
shattered souls decorating
frozen battlefields don't make it
any prettier.
you are no less when your
blood is orange.
these are the last dreams
of midnight vendetta, baleful
clouds laying low over
ashen forest.
it is here. it is now.
call my heart to battle.