Blood

An ember lights the shoot, then dies

The canvas is spread, waiting for the artist

No blade can pierce the bullet

But her gaze will.

There is no pristine snow

Without a dash of crimson

No stronger brew for greatness

Than the cesspool of shame and undigested weakness

Weakness that soaks your flesh

Blazing out of your eyes

Weakness that infests everything

The mark of you.

Weakness that left

But never did

It survives 

like you.

So why wait for the blossoming petals,

Why endure the changing seasons?

Why let the spring breeze rob you of your canvas,

And melt away your icy wrath?

How painstakingly must the steel be folded

Before it can become a sword?

How deep must the love be

Before that thin line is crossed, and never again?

“And so the bride met her death,

But she did not meet her end.”

There will be no victory

Only fever dreams of hatred, bleeding into your eyes

There is no defeat

Only dying embers, grasping for a chance to live again

So find your foe, the right foe, the best you can find, the worst you can hate

Let him be strong, be fearsome, be cocky, be all the king’s army and his palisades of men

Let him be pure of power, pure of conviction, 

and in his conviction of you, find your canvas

The canvas of your life, the impossible magnum opus

Leave the shadow, come into the light

You deserve to shine and burn bright

For in the impurities we exist

Gladly blood will be spilled

To garnish the snow

From my hands

By you,

Love