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There are fingers wrapped steady on the bannister down, tightly To a hearth wheezing orange at the base of the stair A timid fire hunching toward ash, To that gray salted beach of memory To the tendril of Hellfire And her fingers wrapped steady on the staff The battle's bannister down The Death's Head slowly becoming hers Falling as one Into the true black fire that gives no ash Her fingers slipped as his tighten now Years later Down the morning stair, He kneels beside the pot-stove struggling for heat in the cooling earth And stirs the embers Desperately As they fade to spite him Like that day those years ago Doing all he can -Loddy | |