do you hold the tempests in your ragged fists,

or thread the galaxies through the scars on your palms?

or are you the follower, longing for purpose,

and maybe for truth?

or yet are you the one who doubts, who falls,

who sinks, because truth is only for the desperate? 

it's dark, that morning when you see him again,

and the cold burrows into your skin as you wonder

which of the two you are, if he is the first.

but when you see his wild eyes,

and guilt rushes over you,

you know you are something else entirely:

the traitor, who laughed on the hill where hope died,

who scoffed when the world wept,

and this is what terrifies you most:

that he looks into your eyes, and knows you,

and that he is here, anyway