The Royal

by Dan Smith

Hands like fire pull threads
Woven into patterns — 
Just as they pull red from the root — 
Just enough to quell the uprising
Of suicide cells scorched into submission
And nerves who have evolved to ignore their damage. 
The strands fight Earth's momentum, 
The draw from the core, just
Like crops that bend but still resist the wind that blows through fields
Half harvested. 

Heavy-handed intention
Subconsciously decides what can stay and what is sacrifice, 
A prayer to keep growing what has been dead the whole time. 

Collect the cells to build your prison
Red-handed and fingers numb, 
Pain trapped beneath grief-grown callouses. 
Hands stained crimson
(Blood better kept in your heart) 
Strike chords and untie strings, 
The reminders to remember
To paint your face, 
Create your mask, 
Endeavor to save what won't be saved.