Two swords. One stained by sharp forgiveness taken. The other sheathed, disguised as
adoration that is unveiled as analysis.
I begged for the acrid iron smell of blood. The altar was set at the base of my own feet. There is nothing that compares to warmth. Sometimes it must be sliced out.
Smoke is rising at a hilltop. It is almost disguised by a dusk sky, blended. At the summit the
embers are in hospice. A staggering brightness pretends to be the basis of new life, but new life is spring green, not dying orange. There is nothing that compares to warmth.
At a vantage point the silhouettes of men can be seen approaching. Their swords are drawn,
and my altar is covered in ivy.
Parceled togetherness is not intrigue, it is oxygen. Oxygen as a drug, not sustenance. There is no color in an eclipse and an eclipse is not a weapon.