Original art work - thefoxandtheraven
Mist descends Like an ill-begotten shade Obscuring that, The sense you most rely And so I speak in softer tones Yet No less deadly As the smoke coils inward Stinging out your eyes Blink back rivers Irritant Your grip reactionary Tightens the blade Plant your roots Never falter As your instinct Takes the reign A low pitched whistle Alerts you To the knife Coming for your head Relax into reflex Prophetic knowing That for the Morrigan You have bled. - Joey Morris 2019 all rights reserved