I didn\'t write this for you.
That you abandoned me I can forgive-that he made us and abandoned us, I will not.....
And when it is done, I will drink the bitter piss of dreams misspent.
These skins I will still fill-come blood, come turn-gnashing.
But I am not yet ready, brothers.
The cold turn blows-she comes for what is her due, for what I owe.
I trade my teeth for this ink scrawl, for spite, for everything that we were and everything that we should have been.
My tongue is ink black, my fingers stained and chipped, my breath poison.
We will revel in it.
But we will not cower.
We are as we were made: his misbegotten children.
The seed is war, and we will not be writ on water.
But he will know us, we that reave the turn.
Save yours from prayer; he is as blind as he is deaf.
For Hourl, the city that suckled us into its last dying tremors, cut us on pitted teeth, and spat us out with her last broken breath.
I write this for all my brothers who howl still, for flesh taken and abused long past its due.
You avert your gaze from the turn and huddle, pray for the day-star to return-forget that its light burns.
You mistake stone for safety, fire for warmth, and hope for wings, instead of the coil that squeezes.
I grew tired of how you snivel and abase yourselves for a Father who abandoned us long ago.
I simply grew tired of your poxy tongue scratched legends.
I didn\'t write this for you
