Beacons of Glory

I guess I understand where they’re coming from

with all those lines and paragraphs spilling glory, spilling vengeance, spilling whatever blood is left in their cheeks.

My mind is not made of glass, nor rounded like a woman’s bosom

and, attested, I am not losing it.

I’ve given my sweat to this child hoping he will use it as a beacon (not of light)

(not of darkness)

They are telling him to find a middle ground here– dig your fingernails into the dirt and show us what you find.

It is somewhere in the broad spectrum of bloodlines.

I will tell you this boy is something special, something devious, something under the thesaurus’s synonyms of the word unusual.

But this is not of darkness; I have promised this.

He is stuck between a cloth and a mountain, soothing himself to sleep over the battles he is forced to watch unfold.

I am sat next to him, forced to understand his watery eyes, understand the flutter on the back of his tongue, understand each and every breath–

cupping the blood in his cheeks until it is spilling through my fingers.

– ODH