by Nick Gisburne
The mystic finds the corpses of her kind
To plunder secrets buried in their skin
Collecting what the past has left behind
With strong but crippled fingers, spider-thin
She chips and claws in fields of filthy ice
To bring the smallest sample to her plate
A superficial sliver will suffice
A morsel, from an undetermined date
Consuming what is dead, but never gone
She celebrates the spirits of the lost
They live inside her soul, and linger on
Ancestral heroes, fighters in the frost
She finds them where they fell, and where they lie
And promises their dreams will never die
