At the Gate of Bones,
The Keeper carves his words out of the Flesh
of the Fugitive Gods,
Cutting to the Bone
Again and again,
Blood running through the ruts,
Heiroglyphs upon the Table,
The Altar of Sacred Violence...
The Heart of Religion.
The Birth of Tragedy.
[Middle English tragedie, from Old French, from Latin tragoedia, from Greek tragōidiā : tragos, goat + aoidē, ōidē, song.]
Bent and broken over the Wheel,
Singing still, saying:
"As long you can sing about it,
It ain't that bad."
A life made just bearable enough to keep singing,
Standing knee deep in blood,
Surrounded by bones,
Watching the Keeper carve.
Waiting for the silence between screams
To sing again.