Knuckles pressed to the dust and bone, Eyes like embers, lost and alone. The canopy fades in a whispering hush, We crawl from the green into wind and crush. Stone in hand like a half-formed prayer, Fire born from the breath of air. The fur gives way to naked skin — The war within begins to grin. We are the walkers, the spark-keepers, Murdered silence and fire-breathers. One strike, two sparks — now the dark is slain, And nothing is sacred in knuckle and flame. Flesh on flint, scream on smoke, The ape still howls inside the cloak. But forward we lurch on broken feet, Dragging the stars into the heat. And though the forest called us home, We carved our names into the stone… With knuckle and flame.
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