there is smoke, or is it steam?
ground hot charred in places
bells sound in time with blood
my book, the gift, the simple thing.
what was I doing when this began?
rhythm of my ax keeping the time
one thing cut, and one remained
in the quick, the thick, and the mad.
some journey has brought me here
no chart of reference, nor a name
she knew, yet wouldn't claim the smolder
pouring light on me, making it clear
my feet dug in, and my head regained
heat in the wake behind me
how many hours have I slain this day?
curious now to know the refrain.
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