A tight fist grips,

yet wet with blood,

still slips.

Ego tumbles

down dark tunnel visions,

long looking glass

cracked and split.

Faces for masks

that never fit.

Fingers that accuse

never acquit.

With a silver tongue

smooth and slick,

easily convinced

by well spun webs.

Sold souls

already dead.

Told tall tales of dread.

Pale bone white

as the snow.

Light above

darkness below.

Hard as it holds

just to let go.

Identity smoke,

no form of its own.

Carving a face

in the stone.

Sentinel , stoic,


HG – 2015

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