“Who do you think you are?” they ask
and I shift:
Condensed breathing, subtle movement –
Vacant eyes, mumbling phrases of tongue unknown –
Tongues that whip
I quiver and quake,
rattling perception’s gates
Hard iron, once forged, finely embellished
centuries of rust beneath a facade
My blood upon it.
The Tower looms
whence the whips fly
I take them in hand –
with a clap, no longer
to whip the poor of their will.
Set to flight, a thousand wings
to take the gates.
Crumbling, where blood meets earth.
Who do I think?
We. They. Are.