Damocles, my Crossroad King, lay your blade across my shoulders again.
This is the price we paid:
Inflamed eyes and Stitched Smoulderings
of our greatest fears
clasped so closely to our hearts that we shed our clipped wings
and waxen scars
into keepsake jars-
scraping suffering into
fingernail beds so we can fashion
badges of pride to wear for her.
Share how many of her victories she has so wrought
We are our own moon-scarred demons of light and fears.
Builders of bridges we cross just to burn-
Additions to the great revel of She the Most High.
Cursed Reflections of the same coin-
but tender all the same.
Her forge-fire-fingertips broke us,
molded us into a shape of her choosing.
Weapons for a War of Many Lovers,
with no destined end or winner
But we fought together
and have now lost together
Swords now ourselves, pockmarked and brittle
our clashes just fickle tidings from a monster we chose to worship,
the cracks just her petty laughs
All is fair in this as well, as
Even the greatest weapon seeks a sheath,
as did we.