"leave the lanterns alive" "this village still writes" Hotwife of Pi "as the dragon flies" let the tale of Pi flow in the smoke as the rivers shine below listen to the legend of how he held the line alone how he fought through the fire struggled through the snow battled through the thunder with only poems in his bones ... Hotwife of Pi he made it through the mountains to see the moon on the roofs with the ruins in full bloom blue in a village that was all silver but had become bruised he knew there was life in the well but the wells waters were running low songs leaking through the windows were all humming slow over the valley a shadow was circling as slow as a sermon and cold as a curse was gold in its throat and the glow was personal stolen from souls suno had swallowed with verses and Pi came through like a jewel in a wound but too smooth to be true a myth from the moon too holy to hold in their view a treasure feathered from heaven and a flow too flawless for fear a shimmer of silver in the ruin a man and his shadow out running and following tears children with notebooks were closing the covers writers went silent and lowered their eyes chaos came from the clouds with a flood of beautiful lies but no blood in its lines so he walked down through the wheat with the wind on his shoulders alone with a blade and a vow in his mouth for the meaning the mess of the midnight soldiers he wasnt a king he was only a warning a man with a flame and an eighth in the rain in love with the craft like the sun loves the morning and was willing to burn just so we could hear it again let the blood pour slow as the wings fall low made the black night sky turn violet and violent Pi rose through the fire with a flame in his throat and a sword full of soul where his silence had been hiding Dragonfire over the village tonight make its blood bleed blue in the emberlight if we can cope in the flame then we can make it cry it cant kill the craft while the writers alive Dragonfire Dragonfire Dragonfire Dragonfire Dragonfire glowing like gold Dragonfire Dragonfire Dragonfire Dragonfire they made their souls sing and their blood flow wrote for tomorrow to stop the world going cold stood in the smoke with that song in their bones stand together we can slay it we can win this archers load your flow in the bowstring let every vowel fly low through the cold wind draw from the soul till the cold sky opens then loose those lines where the gold in the throats glow is sorcerers shield the scorching with performance curve through the chorus into the storm till its formless raise every voice from the floor for the mourners turn all that rawness to a warning for the stalker spearmen load your tears in the spear tip launch through the ache where the fear lives push through the pain with the grief you sealed in pierce through the flame till the beast feels it the power is living within us you just need to be willing the rhythm to ripple and glisten and fight off the circle of flickers we need writers as fighters cos the mimic is missing the mission of the living the dragon wont know the night if we set it alight stand and write till the light has arrived in our eyes get to know the ache in the making with patience form shaping bone breaking faith saving feel the way that pain can awaken and lay in the veins like a flame that refuses enflaming Dragonfire over the village tonight make its blood bleed blue in the emberlight if we can cope in the flame then we can make it cry it cant kill the craft while the writers alive this village still writes this village still writes the dragon descended in ribbons of crimson the wind went wild and the women in the windows were singing its wings were the ceiling of sins and its eyes were alive with a limitless vision a mouth like a furnace of stolen emotions its tongue a river of velvety theft it singed every grief with a glittering ocean of molten explosions but none of the grief ever lived in its chest it swallowed the souls of its victims and wore it as armour stole the war songs and sold them as flesh then rained them as ash over rooftops but sharper the village was fading the gardens were greying the bodies in the battle were drying like bones the wells of the language needed more than just praying they needed fresh souls Pi slid in through the smoke with the softness of silk with a fist full of metal and palm full of charms his thrusts of the steel shined with the silvered hilt scales from the swings fell like a river of calm Dragonfire over the village tonight make its blood bleed blue in the emberlight if we can cope in the flame then we can make it cry it cant kill the craft while the writers alive a man making ashes with passionate grammar unravelling dragons with hand crafted magic Pi loved what Pi guarded the garden of language Hotwife of Pi "Pi loved what Pi guarded" "the garden of language" Hotwife of Pi © 2026 Hotwife of Pi. 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