The Prince

tearing into forest graves
fairytales of black painted
the beast is torn through
torn in two
as we move to you
move to kill
an agent of mess
a blight upon all things
unliving and undeserving
death knocks upon all doors
whispers to us all
with all your fears
he motions to us
from the great river of bone
he moves up on winged horse
lifts up the hour
from deep within the core
a hand of stone
reaches out to the people
to the questions we bury
when are we truly alive
if we are fated
to a buzzing end
a swift strike of ashen blade
how do we mend
scars made from our own hands
our brand of black calamity
with ink of rose venom and sage
effects that change
our shapes
to that of wolves
or stag
what steps do we take
before it’s all gone
we wake
from the sleep of kings
princes of old
and as we wait
for death and his forlorn
the hour thins
the hour late
again for mornings rise
the dawn it listens
captures breath
we fall flat
to floors of green blade
the red dew glistens
in the light
for this we linger
for this we fight

Gabriel Michael Selwyn Francis


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