In Carmine

We float,
savage and curtailed;
as though limitless,
rushed with faith that fades in
frothing waves and driving rain.
The chants engulf us as a storm
that will rage for a thousand years.
Our motherland is a
distant aching in the backs of
our minds, a longing we will never
embrace, though before us at once and forever.
Blood sloshes
with the ebb and flow
against ankle bone and brushed metal;
the carmine resolute against the silver.
A thirst, never quenched, teases my throat
and another roars reflexively.
When the shutters rise and
the sun blinds our eyes
the world will squint back, pale-faced.
Scars become ash within
faultlines which quake and crumble
and never go away.
Hellish empire exerted; we are now returned home.



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