“Scribe quickly your name, and stay to the right. Your 
script is curved. It's inclination hooks and spurts as 
if rushed to the end. We'll seeÂ… This is only a 
glimpse. Still, you've kept your head down. Where are 
you hiding? And are you weak? Are you afraid? Did you 
creep each step aghast, skirting shadows, or is it what 
I seek?”
You called to pound the door with pointed hand, but we 
would burn the house. We barred the doors with guilt 
and bone, still we might burn the house. We would burn 
this house of ill regard. Cathedral eyes were sewn to 
bind. You won't storm the house. We would burn the 
house. My temple, I've mortared lock and key alike. 
All's buried, naught to find.
What am I now, torn in two? The illusion of me becomes 
and confronts you. What am I, split in two? What's left 
of me will retreat from this empty knowledge. We'll 
weed out what we don't know.
I've cut my loss and severed a thought from mind. It 
plummets like a stone, and glaring back from depths to 
heights, will torch the night. Retreat from this empty 
knowledge. Weed out what we don't know. Retreat from 
this broken logic. Lost in what we do not know, we'll 
weed out what we don't know.
The road that lay forward was paved with my fears. I 
tore at the open floor. I scurried away, and down. Call 
out to the open floor. Call out to the words that bind 
us whole. Call out from the weighted floor. Call out to 
the guards before us all. Call out to the way.
The wound was cauterized. Burn my way and throw me off 
to the gate. Come fire. Come flame. Come home. Burn my 
way. These days were a waste. Come fire. Come flame. 
The weight of a sin's thick fog. Come fire. Come flame. 
Burn my way. And after all these words I couldn't break 
away from its hold. Weed out what we don't know.
Shadows are fading. The burnt walls are crumbling. The 
old guard is changing. We won't look down, where we've 
aimed for. Not before my eyes, but hidden behind my 
back, and grasped with blood in claw. My soul 
possessions are scant. Withdraw your hands. I've set my 
share alight.
What's beneath this? The husk is wrapped; its form 
flawed. We'll pry the fingers back each bone from bone, 
all ashen, crumbled away. False. The rest is soot and 
blown off. We won't wait. Fall. What we've come digging 
for is dead and cold. We couldn't wait for the 
beatings.