The cold ringing, in my chest

walking down these ancient streets,
the rage flares up, in faded scenes,
details lost, inflamed by the touch,
tainted neglected parts of me,
whistling forgotten melodies.

I am one with this entropy,
buried inside the depths of me,
I fight the void, like it is the enemy.

This little bastard,
strikes up the war drums,
a scowl crawls over my face,
the fires reign in my chest.

My spirit is at ease;
these memories are defeated,
and what is as a result,
is a cold ringing steel.

From shards of weak bloom steel,
welded together in the fires of time,
refined until it was fine,
and sharpened until it was done,
polished under moon and sun.

what was silent, and long oppressed,
came out out screaming,
with no contest.

All that is left
A silent workshop,
an empty furnace in my chest.
These seemingly ancient memories,
of fire, the hammer, the stone, and the rest;
this cold ringing ,
of steel, kin to razor:
meant for one thing,
to bring asunder
what is left.

This poem was inspired by the intro of Book of Black Earth - I See Demons