Lanterns drown in the mist of beguiled misfortune,
Harrowing in the hollows of a shrewd, somber earth.
Whispering needles of pine in the mountain,
Silently beckoning the dust left behind from
Bygone birds in the wind, muddled feathers
Tainted like a brash fire in the winter snow.
The weight of stones braced upon your aching back,
A reckoning timber fanning the crimson flames
Dancing along your spine and burrowing in the
Marrow, running alongside those veins of sage.
The fire is nothing but a ruse, they say—
As you quietly wither in the mourning light,
Cloaked in shadows during the ever-caged night.
Awaken the tides within those eyes and burn
Your lifeblood in the crimson flame, take the
Star-like thing from my chest and bleed it dry.
Take the rot from your lungs and keep the remains
In a locket of brass, my lips eternally sealed in
The silent churning of this lonesome, tired sea.
I will take the rainstead from my quivering brow,
And cradle your burdened soul while we rest
In this frost-bearing, flame-ridden tree of stone—
Crooning birds laden with smoke above the branches.
The last string of moonlight will listen to our keen calling,
So that we may retain peace for all but a fleeting moment.