The Call

There is a jolt to this mirage,

it seeps into my lungs,

the delirious throne awaits its heir.

The howl of the quiet carries my prayers,

the thud of the bleeding anchors me here.

Chiming silver from years ago,

chases what cannot run and bear.

I can see the ashen wreckage again,

a burden it is to know,

the knell that brought you here.

The dawn scarred a longing for this,

to sleep unawoken, 

by beastly confrontations, and phantom sorrows—

dreaming of a world much like this, 

stripped of me, stripped of ambush, stripped of rift.