Age of Quarrel

Fear me not, dearly beloved.

The light dries my eyes.

A hazel mirror

stares blankly 

from the walls of a ghostly home.

Your hand flies through my neck

-an arrow slung from the echoes of a war torn memory-

Love bites poisoned flesh

and it crumbles

like

   a

     castle

             of dry sand.

Fear me, angel of dusk.

A song of hate stirs within my lungs.

As I rise through the haze of our bloodshed

my verse becomes as weak as the throat that summons it

but regardless

the song lingers;

a whisper;

an echo;

a hum.

Pray and forgive, morningstar.

Lay flowers atop the grave of our sins,

turn our bones into mulch,

let this death be the soil of tomorrow,

draw from the veins of this blackened sun

and feed

me

as I shall feed

you.