BROODING

Brooding things upon us,
Weights as heavy as the headsman's hands.
Brutish and forceful blows befalling, 
As freedoms become the sentencing.
In solace we find only insanity,
Inciting fury as bellows upon a fire.
Shall whom may we call upon to lure us, 
And be enticed as from the wicked.

If it is a wound 
That which brings me down,
Let it cut me to my knees,
Laying bare my bones of contempt. 
Let it be wide and gaping, 
Allowing those who delight
​In seeing my blood spilled,
Their thirst to be quenched.

May the wound be deep
And allow my blood to spew.
Pouring forth from live and coursing veins,
To drench those who cry for my end.

These very veins,
Through which life surged so brilliant,
Crimson as the liquid there within,
May they now pulse silent 
As my breath stills.

Let the blow which takes me down
Be harsh and be it swift. 
And if it is so
I shall receive it,
As if slain by a warrior
Who was well versed in death.

But let it be known 
For if it is he,
the coward
Who slays me,
He who tears me down
Without looking into my eyes.

Let it be known
He is fearful
And not worthy
To spill my blood
Upon our ground.

But do not fret,
And know I will not worry.
For there is not a grave 
Which is too shallow,
Nor a pit too deep,
To contain my life within.

You may burn me or bury me, 
Or ditch my body into the sea.
If you are the true coward,
I will see you on the other side
With a caldron for your bones.