We raise the dead with wistful ghosting
and make life to thunderous applause.
To pit the heart against the one it's hosting--
no winners here; our bodies break the draw.
Tell me which ache we plan on choosing:
the lion's maw around our throats,
haunting, hunting, but never killing, only bruising,
or the shattered backbone of one wrong note;
we'll never walk upright again.
Every now and then,
our kingdoms beg for the madness of war--
its gifts and its losses, the looting and lore.
Libertine, you pronounce, as though it means liberty,
but you're beholden to winter, the allure of the hoar.
The wind of the North whispers your liturgy
while the frost lays you down in her bed wanting more.
Please forgive me, dear friend, for warming your grave.
You like ice, but I will always be fire's slave.
