Countermyths · NOX

The iron closed around my wrists. He thought himself released. Across the field the spears went on. The dying never ceased.

A blade could pass through flesh and bone. A heart broke and remained. The final breath reached open lips, then entered them again.

He watched another morning rise and thought the trick was won. Across the earth, unfinished deaths kept breathing in the sun.

He bound my hands and called it life. The wounded named it pain. No final breath could leave the field. It filled the flesh again.

No one died. No one was spared. The wound outlived the war. The living learned what ending meant when I was there no more.

The old kept waking through the dark. The sick stayed past all cure. The bodies broken past repair were sentenced to endure.

The god of war surveyed the field. No victor claimed the day. The armies stood inside their wounds and could not pass away.

No mercy moved the god of war. No pity broke the chain. He placed the clever king before the hands the king had chained.

He bound my hands and called it life. The wounded named it pain. No final breath could leave the field. It filled the flesh again.

No one died. No one was spared. The wound outlived the war. The living learned what ending meant when I was there no more.

A breath is not a life because it has been forced to stay. A body is not spared because it cannot pass away.

I never made the spear or wound. I never chose the war. I am the ending pain can reach when flesh can bear no more.

He bound my hands and called it life. The wounded named it pain. The iron broke. The final breath could leave the field again.

The dying crossed. The living stayed. The hour could close its door. The world remembered how to end when I was bound no more.

He called it life. The living called for me.