Poetry and Artwork by Falconhead

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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…