Crusader, crusader.

Useless crusader,

What cross do you carry?

Is it yours to bear,

or far too heavy?

Esurient crusader,

whose words do you speak?

Do they come from your tongue,

or are they phrases from a land not your own?

Crusader crusader,

lay down the cross you carry,

quiet the words you speak,

and find your own.

Crusader crusader,

take not the burdens

of your fellows

because every cross

is only as tall as the man who carries it.

Crusader crusader,

lay down the words you speak,

for they are not your weapons,

but your tools.

Heavier than blood

Things heavier than blood

rush to my head,

swirling around and filling it up,

right up to the top

bringing my head down,

shadow inch by shadow inch.

My eyes are the next to go,

each lid stumbling down

falling faster

until their closed,

cutting me off from the world in front of me.

My muscles march and follow suit,

leaving me with shivers

that had nothing to do with the cold.

I’m up against a wall

and things heavier than blood

drop me to the ground.

Mists

Pearly cold mists

draped over trees,

a thickening fog

hanging all over the place.

Creeping and crawling

slowly it goes,

watch it play it’s little game.

Chilly testaments of a fading sun

and lingering fogs

cling and glitter across

dappled greens sinking into a fiery gradient.