Collection 2

The Wreath

I lay them out side by side,
Brushing off the frozen pines,
Gripping tight, I hold my mind,
Steady as to not abide,
By the rules of the other binds.

I lay this out in your eternal name,
I cast it towards the burning flame,
Accept these bones and bloody game,
From the rotten bodies of whence it came,
At dawn's delight, we may bring you fame.

I repeat the prayer alone,
As to remember my sins and atone.
My visage 'comes cold as a stone,
Any respect I had has been thrown,
As the wreath I've made is made from bone.

A bone from myself but none I have offered,
I made it suffer as I will suffer,
I prepared for much time, by still I stutter
For when I ripped and tore I shivered and shuddered.
I hope and pray for my colour to fly upward.

And here I stand to deliver my wreath,
My heart still settles to a dusted heath,
I find the feeling to be hidden beneath,
My artificial valor and courage I've weaved.
I clench my tongue between my teeth.

My arms swing forward, the time has come,
The fire must swallow for my work to be done.
The crackle of heat makes my heart a drum,
But the fire itself has made my arms go numb,
All I must do for the wreath to leave is hum.

My eyes I shut and hood under skin,
But my voice still makes an unholy din,
To distract my demons that claw from within,
I shelter my spirit from my own mortal sin,
And wait until the wreath is but has been.

I'm not sure what happened, but I am alive,
Whatever occurred may have left me to thrive.
At least until tomorrow night I may strive,
For perfection and health and a healing drive.
Maybe I won't let my happiness deprive.