His Perishing Flesh

you_found_me__by_malinmellryd-d6ox567
“You found me.” by MalinMellryd

What withered thumb marks the
ash on my temple,
streaking the remains  of
his perishing flesh? I cannot
call his name — indeed,
it would steal my breath.
Neither crucifix nor holy
stain, his dust does not
stir lenten requiems, but rather
dark and furled refrains that
bounce against these sacred walls.
That is not all — he leaves
me smoke, bitter incense without
the chants; I kneel in wait,
but I do not pray. I do not sing —
in truth, I can’t. His mossy teeth
protect no tongue, and his hand,
it marks my face with ash. Silently,
he reaches near to enfold me in
his perishing flesh.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

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Your Breath is Like Ashes- original poem

Dark Crows Couple
Dark Crows Couple” by unknown artist

Your breath is like ashes
that flake off your lips
and your voice is the smoke
that shades an eclipse.

With words blacker than blood
you streak the sky red
and your eyes burn a fire
that devours the dead.

The white mask you model
serves a waxen shield
that born against virtue
wrecks the playing field.

Lies act as your arrows
and spite is your mace,
my steel and rusted words
crumble in their place.

But my armor’s iron
and plated with gold
so your blade won’t bite me
or melt down my mold.

This black battle you wage
with crimson-tipped spears
is all smoke and cinders
that thaw futile fears.

For the crows you unleash
to pick at the dead
leave my body intact
and tear yours instead.

They Painted Me Red- original poem

Concept Art
Concept Art by unknown artist

They painted me red
in a sea of black,
and I laughed, I think, as I fought them back.

My steel kissed more flesh
than iron and stone,
but I’m not a killer, at least, not on my own.

I won’t be remembered
as gallant and brave,
for this crimson snow shall bury my grave.

But it makes no difference
that I live or fall,
I would say my friends were dead, if I had any at all.

They bit out our pride
as they burned our barricade,
but I was immortal, you see, I couldn’t fade.

Now the sky spits fire
on a sea of roiling reds,
and moaning ghost ships wave their flags in shreds.

I’m accustomed to pain,
Agony’s but a quest,
I’d get up, mind you, if not for these arrows in my chest.

I have not been beaten,
my soul’s not yet reaped,
But I’m weary, you see, all I want is to sleep.

They painted me red
as the stars smiled on,
I may die here, I think, but I’ll never be gone.