To My Wayward Sons (Supernatural Poetry)

Ashes Of The Reborn

I could always taste

Bitter ashes in my tongue

Heavy and morbid

Those of the fallen ones

.

Hunter's occupation

Falling with fires and rain

Stitches and wounds

Filled with kindle and pain

.

Voices of the dead

In the valley of the damned

Ring in our memories

Every. Single. Fucking. Night.

.

Nothing is ever sacred

Not even our missing God

Where creatures dwell

In realms of Avalon and Hell

.

We feed on heartaches

Hold on to swinging nooses

Grasp splintered stakes

And our cold stolen revolvers

.

But with every life cost

Every black eye blinking out

There's a light not lost

Lives regenerated with hope

.

The pyre keeps burning

To remind me of destruction

But also reminding me

Of the rise of a bright phoenix

.

We rise, from the dust

Of the detritus we've created

And do what we must

Hunters never get defeated

.

We carry on, carry on

With tattered souls we mend

We carry on, carry on

Our hard pride we will defend

.

I could still taste the ashes

In my tongue, grey, bitter, all heavy

But it keeps me at bay, lest

I forget my own rebirth and victory.