Poetry and Artwork by Falconhead
With all the blood of a howling storm, hair black as
night, eyes alive as an earthly wight, I am returned, having
weathered every war, having made each woe my ward.
Now I draw a sphere around your skull, a serpent’s egg,
the World—a falcon’s cage. But you think you spy mad-
ness in my words. You’ve not seen madness ‘til you’ve
seen what I have seen. Hell-fire. Blackened souls.
dæmons as red as coal. For I was fed lion’s meat as
a bairn, communed with sibyls, played with swords
on haunted moors. And you—the magician’s cat,
you have no say in your fate. Steal the king’s ransom,
fear what you hate. But I have been to the Sun and back,
and breathe a Sun’s fire now. Lungs of ash. The Devil’s
lash. And though ye little men, passersby, judge &
jury with hollowed eyes wash your blood-stained hands,
ye turn away thinking ye made me, but found your-
selves mortal made. Your wives, and your kin, like your
House—firewood for my breath. Thus I go on living so
long as you live, cannot be mortalized. For I am disinclined
to die. So, dear child, do not trifle with the Truth, it’ll break
you down and set you straight. And in a thousand years you’ll
find I play dead very well. Very well, indeed…