Mikhail Morbid

Desolate years, darker winters,
A window, some hope, and bars;
Bars with a rickety presence...
Allows half a sweep of freshness,
Enough to keep him on his feet,
To keep him from falling;
Falling from within.
Staleness served twice,
And a cup of cold life...
To him, nothing but cookies,
Cookies of distraction...
Keeps him half filled.
The other half, lifted...
Lifted from solitude,
Drawn by the white whispers,
The pale promises, the crimson care,
The blue bravado, and often...
The grayish grin of the night's pricelessness;
The mystical menace,
The morbid moon.

Felony for a cause...
Felling clay figurines
Of an artisan, skilled at driving guillotines
Of absolution, dictation...
Closing deals with cold blood,
Cutting losses with knives, lives...
Felony for a cause...

Choosing one over another,
Worthy...none.
A carriage full of hope,
Hope for a cabin,
Miles from the fallen city,
Some life, some ale,
The best in good ol' Bleakvale...

He had but a choice:
A choice, left in the hands of fate,
Fate, that kept volumes
In store for a redeeming soul.
The puller smirked and pulled out a blade,
Redeemed his fortune, part and whole;
Left the settler wet with red,
For a choice he couldn't make.
A pilgrim to be, an ascendant,
Left with a carriage full of treachery,
Cuffs and scars for keepsake...
Silent howls, fading wails,
The twisted clay has turned frigid.
Darker winters, darkened eyes,
A closing wait for Mikhail Morbid...