his voice was broken as water over his scalp
bowed over the spear of a stalagmitic altar
all those years when i wanted to be
someone's son and on fire in that being
brack spilling over his brow, brackish water
taking the shape of his longing, a blade
hell-forged and strong, unsacred pater
of an east-risen son
far and away from the jewel
of his infernal eye.





Penned by my hand on the 13th of Lupar, in the year 895 AF.