Amaranthine

It's been a while. Here, have this thing

What more will you take from me?
The Horseman,
my reckoning,
my penance.
Despite great care, my
muted steps are forever trailed by
that rhythmic, thunderous crash.
How much can you loot from my pallid frame?
Sifting through my waking hours
and greedily sipping the dregs of sleep
from between my withered hands.
Have you no other plaything?
Desperate, bruised, and bleeding,
my shaking limbs scrape together a blanket of
cowardice and ignorance.
Warmth blooms in my sunken cheeks,
the harsh winds wane
and the hoof steps seem so distant from
within my citadel.
Crown upon head, i walk the halls
of my palace and admire the tapestry work
with its uniform stitching.
But these walls are gossamer thin
and find their strength on the butterfly’s wing.
With nonchalant malice he’ll brush them aside.
Those ashen hands will grasp my skull
and shaking, i am none.