by Nick Gisburne
Her fingers fondle small, volcanic stones,
And, as they scratch and scrape her skin, they spark.
She walks upon the narrow bridge of bones,
A shadow, disappearing in the dark.
Beneath her boils a sacrilege, a sea,
The souls of every child who ever died.
Before her stands a friend, a brother. Me.
I cannot let her reach the other side.
She comes to break the black, dividing dam,
To flood the world she hates, with what was lost.
Her eyes do not remember who I am.
They cannot see the future, or the cost.
We made this world together, she and I.
Two gods. Perhaps too many. One must die.
