Mutemaker

No woman bore me.
Woven was I,
from fog and breath–
an ash-child.
Her lullabies–
echoes from kin long dead.
A lie named dreams.

In this world of pain and ash,
I found a flower.
Like me: made of mold,
burning like the fabled sun.

Loved her. Kissed her.
Called her name.
The Gods exhaled–
and wove us a child
that binds us both,
and forever
makes us worship
those who breathe the fog.

With her,
and my child,
I forgot
to dream.

Horned riders–
executioners of my hopes–
sitting high
on their pale horses.
They show their teeth;
their grin:
dead wolves.

They do not ask–
they do not search–
they just take her–
and the unborn child.
Toothless mouths howl in joy
as they watch them burn to ash.

She did not dance–
but her ash sealed my lids.
She did not scream–
but the noise made me deaf.

While she smiled, burning:
the charred child was
reborn inside my breast.
Whispers lullabies,
soaked in blood.
While I should be the one
to speak of fairies.

Her eyes are strong,
but I want to die.
I am nothing without you.
Helpless fool.

May I carve out the pain,
open the wound,
release the pus–
with steel:
Mutemaker.

Blade of steel, black as wind,
your edge cuts fog itself.
Pommel heavy, shaped for skulls,
yet your weight—a sparrow’s breath.

It tears tongues;
unburies lies;
blinds eyes;
deafens ears.

Mute my enemies.

The smell of iron
drowns men in fear.
And calls the grief
once drowned in silence.

Made by the man of stitches:
brother of Needlebones–
abandoned long ago.

Man and Woman
stitched as one.
Muscles and womb,
formed as one.
Son and daughter
of the Stitchers.

They who see, but cannot speak
wove steel not made by fire–
bore the blade
from a thousand stings.

I offer you my body,
and the remains of my soul.
To strike down my enemies
with your cutting touch.

Break up the corpse of the earth.
Push me under. I follow.
No cries, no tears.
I go. As yours.
And you as mine.

Seal the godless door.
Let no God descend.
And return to earth:
not as prey, but king.

Bugs and worms:
you feast on me–
I feast on you.

Together: one.
Creatures of the earth,
made of your earth.
I took–
but now I give.

When I return from the depths,
I will blind those who decide–
without ears to hear their cries,
without tongue,
without eyes,
with steel that mutes:
Soldier. Master. All the same.
I became–
where no king can follow.

The divine do not see
what the mirrors hide from men.
What I became cannot reflect–
a ghost in flesh,
a well of grief
that feeds the blade
that can kill the Gods.

Mutemaker drinks my soul,
grows through the ruins–
like poison ivy.
Weave something new.

Bound together–
one breath,
one cut,
one death.

The wind leads the way
to the well of blood–
to feed your hunger,
and still my thirst.

We drink.
We cut.
We end.

The Gods will die.