I dreamed your blood-stained flesh,
a wound of Promethean Shame.
The scythe of Janus haunted your days.

Dressed only in the skin
granted by the Furies,
you sought me, Mnemosyne,
the source of Redemption.

I am the whisper in your mind,
the sleep into which you fall
to escape the swallowing Dark.

I will see beyond your eyes,
the grooves that trace your mouth,
the Death that stalks closer
as we hold our breaths.

In this moment of yearning and Magic,
Remember we are born of stars.

©2017 I.O. Kirkwood. All Rights Reserved.


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