If the first light left me seen, then by the first strike I've been struck. God help me. I'd stumbled upon the crowd, at first, in jest. But I remained, if only out cold.
I once told you my scars burn like hot iron. I've endured the day's tolls, and held my back to ills. But if I'm to bear this load, then let me craft of it the hand that grips my throat.
If I put in all my fears, then at least what's stored is kept, albeit locked in this room.
Grab hold, and you won't let it go. I might choke out a phrase that's honed with bile. Safe journey on you. You'll run in a maze cut from my lines. A strong word rings out like a shot. I knew its aim would hit the mark.
This golem I've made wants me dead. It's been programmed blow for blow. Surprise–you bought it. Hell, I did.
I need one shape. I need one place for aim: one rock and chisel, hewn into place, and resting atop the thinnest strawman stand.
It seems we're going anywhere but where I win, or anywhere at all.
Grab hold, and I won't let it go. I've called out a name that's robed in time. Safe journey on you. You'll run in a maze that's all mine. Safe journey onward. I'll call on the walls down around us both.
A hidden ghost forms, and cleaves right through me; drawn as familiar, drawn to my call.