i.
Countless bloodlanguages lost,
I linger in my veins and countless kingdoms
Since slipped into silence.
I have been a king of three rosaries,
Grinning like a knife in a gunfight,
An afternoon lunacy on top of bruise violet.
ii.
I’m prying beartrap jaws from wooden tongue;
Preparing to speak or gnash in turn,
Where willowords and ironwounds hold certain magics each.
Nested amongst thistlethrone,
Like a godmouthed and darling devil, wretched.