Broken Vials


content warning: suicide, self-harm, violent imagery

The crew departed winter last,
Panting and packing and
Leaving here a trail of
Antique notes and broken vials.

The Captain was a worldly man,
His posture firm and eyes
Dwelling on the coming prospect
Of an endless storm.

I can’t sleep on floating rocks,
For the vast and sneering
Silence conjures dreams of a
Formless beast of unholy design.

I dreamt of arcane claws,
A nightmare even, for they so
Keenly mocked these frail
And unravelling wrists.

The Captain was a clinical man,
Weighing my fleeting soul to
Years and charts and figures
That just might save a realm.

I see wings of perfect steel
Weeping ash and scattered seed,
I, Lord of Clay, the forgotten father
And holder of the Sacred Flame!

A vial within my hand,
Its soul of teal and quartz,
Ignites this icy heart
With songs of a liquid past.

The Captain was a wretched man,
His sin corrupting stars beyond
And leaving here a trail of
Dust and glass and brother’s blood.

His darkness surrounds me,
Not a knowing mother’s quilt,
But a spiteful, clawing hand—

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