Blood and Ink
In the ablutionary light of a hiemal Eve,
treading over the tapering path of ash and soot,
knees buckled, skin splotched and eyes chinked,
his shadow is the gun-metal-grey serenity of
a fey yonder arced above dormant ivory beaches.
His soul is ink and it mutes chapters
on the endurance of a cursed legacy
and bedevilment pelting the heart into a tomb
of disgrace, drown in burning poison;
that ink feeds his blood, races his life pump
to move on, never surrender, to foil the mirage
of mourning with the shield of patience and
the dagger of wit.
treading over the tapering path of ash and soot,
knees buckled, skin splotched and eyes chinked,
his shadow is the gun-metal-grey serenity of
a fey yonder arced above dormant ivory beaches.
His soul is ink and it mutes chapters
on the endurance of a cursed legacy
and bedevilment pelting the heart into a tomb
of disgrace, drown in burning poison;
that ink feeds his blood, races his life pump
to move on, never surrender, to foil the mirage
of mourning with the shield of patience and
the dagger of wit.
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