The Iron Meridian

The marrow hums a hollow, frantic song, A glitch within the blueprint of the bone, Where rare and rusted wreckage drags along, And leaves me fighting battles all alone. They watched the phantom fever claim the vein, They sold the secrets whispered in the dark, They measured out the tally of my pain, And tried to smother every dying spark. The ghosts of loyalty are brittle glass, Shattered by the hands I used to hold; I watched the vultures circle in the grass, To pick at stories that were never told. The poison in their veins is old and deep, A toxic rot that festers in the chest, While I wake from a fractured, shallow sleep, To put the hollow promises to rest. But listen to the rhythm of the blade, The steel that learns to harden in the fire; The debt of their betrayal has been paid, Consumed within the heat of my desire. My worth is not a currency they own, It is the mountain peak, the solid stone; I built this kingdom from the ache alone, A warrior standing silent on the throne. Let every illness wither in the sun, Let every traitor vanish in the night; The war within the blood has just begun, And I am blinding in my own pure light. My skin is scarred, my spirit worn to thread.