Cracked stone throbs like sorrowful hearts,
Their stones ajar as an open maw.
Midnight drips from the rafters, waxen,
Air damp with musk.
My skin appears bare—
Absent of scratched metal,
Chilled at the thought of missed battles,
Ghosts appearing as brands.
Their whispers no longer a shock,
Inflicted with madness long
Before my first blood,
Struck with a curse of prophecy.
I’ve grown used to the accusations—
Witch! Witch!
But was it really madness to hear Heaven speak?
Was it madness when He beckoned me through the fervor of the world?
He struck me, broke me open,
Burdened me with glorious knowledge,
Now I’m bound in the language of men,
Confined by their false God.
Yet I know the silence that follows command,
The hush before the arrow’s hymn.
I rode where the earth bled smoke,
A command beneath the wind’s roar.
The fire burns outside, impatient,
Waiting for my calloused flesh,
Radiant and jealous as if it will be
Robbed of its next meal.
Let the pyre burn—
Let the seeking tongues of flames ashen my name—
He will cup me in his hands—
And seek my retribution.
The Tributary 