Colder than a whisper of Hell,
a presence emerges from the gates.
No more than a child yet with a devil’s might
and a devil’s care for collateral damage,
with a crosshair unwavering from my chest
and the last objective I’ve to fulfill.
History screams in a voice barren of negotiation
as the innocent are pulled from the sidelines into the firing squad.
No more can be given.
I’ve become a husk for the sake of another
at the direction of a beloved.
No more can be given but a plea and a promise.
Never is there to be harm upon the casualty of our collision.
If there is blame to be had in the name of the past,
take this ruptured arm for the trophy of your rage
and step away from the secret.
Doubt has been made alien to me at the threat of defeat.
My conviction is singular and your intent is a flying spear.
Away from these walls, you may guide me away,
but it is never to be if a stray scratch adorns this frame I tend to.
An errant action will be off with your head.
I’ll swear this upon the second promise I can make:
Guide me away, but spare the spare,
whose only fault was to be stuck in our middle.
Lay not a finger.
I swear on this:
Upon her first breath I will meet your history
and the score shall settle itself in due course.
Nestled in the nadirs of a concealed arena,
this can all be brought to its end.
At your demand I am forced to abide,
seeing her body flinch as it awakens to the world,
seeing the finality that rests in a devil’s immobile stance.
Should you find a way through me, I now come to fear:
What of the king miles away?
Drowned in the bleak battle that’s assured by your power,
that which I care for most now finds itself out of balance
and I feel duty awaken anew inside.
( ❤ Mitch)
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