He curls his chained blade against the brick, scrapping and sparking,
until he locks into a small post, hurling his body across the gap.
Anthologies of dust and slivers smash into his body, hitting a nerve,
creating a storybook of past tragedies, only punishing him.
“Your wife and child are poisonous to you, a true warrior.”
They are pushing him further into regret, and revenge.
“I am what the Gods made me.”
Anguish heavies his body enough to sever the wooden post,
not quite clearing the opening.
Ash and blood robe him into a warming space, declining.
Several tones of grey and maroon surface as an inferno
capture his eye.
Romance is tattered in scarlet, muddled recollection.
He cannot die until they are released from heaved blade.
The River of Styx marks a rebirth.