Crimson Prison.

He traces glyphs along spine.

He traces glyphs along spine.

Ancient angelic language.

Felt… more so, seen than heard.

You may call it presence….

Essence

He carves and sculpts

The rhythm of a song

One deep from within in the earth.

As if the fire

Licking its way up throat

Scorching path across flesh

Leaving only the lingering

Tenderness

Week old sun burned skin

In shape of vest

His voice twist between those

Winding valleys as if signal

The ember

His passion guiding

Binding both shadow and light

He is warden

Tyrant of his own design.

To bend, and break, molding

World in twisted image

King

Benevolent still, patient in his will

Taking hold of his sin.

Each lash

Forth cometh the flames

A roaring furnace

Smith and forge is he not

Yet still

Shattering himself

Upon redemption

Born anew

To be forged again

Forth cometh the flames

Of transformation

Hell

Be a pitiable measure

To this his Crimson Prison.