“Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver.“ — Sophocles, Antigone.
Your heart is filthy like your feet
and your tongue is sharp like your teeth
but I will not cower in fear nor kneel at the sight of you,
for you know of my wishes, dear uncle.
I will not rest until the undead bodies of tainted men
saunter through your temple; their anguished moans of agony
leaking down your marble walls and their limp, pulsing beings
dress the floor with a sea of martyr blood and crucified tears
as I cradle the body of my brother in my arms.
The fight shall never end,
even when the delicate balance between life and death
dwindles down to the shattered embrace of glass bones,
I will never stop fighting.