I will rise up.
Out like a phantom,
out of the mist,
and into the fire.
Bring me a mask,
braid my hair tight.
We'll go out tonight.
Bald and raw like a new child
single file into the dark.
Flawlessly executed,
like one would orchestrate a Funeral,
every angle meticulously
decided.
I will fly,
eerie,
into the tomb.
Rise up,
late for my tea
bloodied and bruised
and missing teeth.
Worn and whittled thin
as a plank.
I will count the bones of my dead,
bless the heads of my survivors.
Kiss their feet.
Wash their hands of burns.
I will rise from the mist
dead, but still making promises.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Halitus, in the year 533 AD.