We lapped at the blood which we kept on
Your bed; we couldn’t bring ourselves to
Drink it, so we sang and told stories instead.
If a tree falls alone does anyone hear?
We scorned and were scorned.
Reservedly deserving, or so we thought.

Regret pumps like iron through the veins of the willing.
Of the hasty.
In time to the ornate clock,
Fashioned from laughter,
The purest irony.

But that can never matter now, the ritual’s begun.
And souls become bowls with ladles of gold, full to the brim.
And as Sanity trips from this forgotten place, your
Tears beat a rhythm
As I carve darkness into my face.

And unease hangs musky in the air,
We try to revel in it.
You smile with your mouth as I
Laugh for the benefit of those worth impressing.

And the cold wind soothes, warm, and I’m forever
Stained, and my soul is long gone,
Rid of me.
It left once it had gained
What is needed to fuel the
Dying embers of Pride and the smoldering remains of Hope,
Hopelessly maimed.

And your eyes glint dark green, for although
I’m forever blind there’s too much I can see.
My ears have heard what none should hear, and my
Mouth has learned to relish the strange taste of Fear.
And the game staggers on, losing its
Will, and the winners are made clear,
And the others, the others.
I was not Named.
I am not Saved.