What fire, it burns too brightly

“To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due.”

- Neil Gaiman, Sandman IV: Seasons of Mist

Travel stained and wearied, they stop but for a little while

He was a Soldier

I am known
in the religion of rage.
Worship me as a pool
Of blood in your hands.
Drink me deep.
It’s bitter fury
that boils and burns.
Your knives were small
but they were many.
I am named
in the religion of rage.
Worship me with your
offhand cuts
long after I am dead.
It’s a song of dreams
crumbled to ashes.
Your wants overflowed
but now gape empty.
I am drowned
in the religion of rage.
Worship me unto
death and down
to a pile of bones.
The purest book
is the one never opened.
No needs left unfulfilled
on the cold, sacred day.
I am found
in the religion of rage.
Worship me in a
stream of curses.
This fool had faith
and in dreams he wept.
But we walk a desert
rocked by accusations,
where no man starves
with hate in his bones.

- Fisher kel Tath MALAZAN BOOKS OF THE FALLEN (Steven Erikson)