dead men:

Corpses will mark the trail of my pilgrimage,

as I make my way to the city of Dis.

I am the hand that guides my pen.

Every letter another heresy,

I breathe them more easily than your name.

The old woman reads the lines in my hands,

tells me they were meant for tilling fields.

Whatever this steel in my hand is for,

it’ll guide me to peace.

The heartland beats with waves of grain.

The soul an excellent millstone.

I wonder what can be made of ruin,

if anything could grow on land so blighted.

They used your blood to made castles in the sand,

spoke in the language of the old hills.

Dead men all spoke the same language,

500 words for sacrifice but only 1 for longing.

Their spines matched their character in youth,

but life had made them crooked with compromise.

Every heretic walks their own path,

a road paved with their every sacrilege.

We all walk that trail.

Such is the comfort of man.