"The true chains are not of iron, but of a kindness too cunningly worn."
- Poet
A moral reckoning
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cunning whist’red the wind through bulwarks of my youth cloaked in kindness its sly craft masked in plotting feign’d truth the scent of damp stone and moss clung to my marrow voices in each gust defiant i stood on the brink slumber’ring in ire’s enlace with sly deceit danced outcome and beguiled dreams took stage apace the bitter tang of shadowed air the quell of trembling leaves twilled with the evil of withheld grace vain are stars that once foretold boast not what thou’st dealt the conqueror an umbral mist walks in wilderness where none hath knelt soil crumbles underfoot cold dew bites the ankles of night sweet—and awful—sang the muteness after the third new moon pass’d grim hunger prevails hangs where sojourners draw breath their last the coppery taste of fear lingers in the throat as stillness gnaws the spectral lungs not for bread i starve but for meaning in vale and entombed mountain roam judgment echoes field and forest sunward songs mount toward doom rustle of leaf bark-scratch under nails carry the weight of unseen eyes thorn’d breaths of abyssal wind my failing prostrate i ascribe to flagrant flame incurably untam’d a whirling squall of dissipation drunkenness of nameless claim the acrid smoke of wasted fire licks the tongue of legacy shadow’d cinders curl in the mind indignation binds me captive a dungeon endless dark and grim vile guilty stricken wholly no mortal left to shield or limb chains clash rattle in marrow’s obscurity iron scents the air with accusation yet manifest soulless one fervent fierce and torn momentary affliction sways in transient shape of mourn cool sweat bitter ashen traces mingle with tremor of fleeting heart tired i am weak i am worn i am yet still i rise though wretched rent to meet the sweet and awful dawn with every scar fetch’d and spent light trembles on dew-beaten leaves first air pungent and raw fills lungs with promise of endurance cunning whist’red the wind
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