I think I’ll cut my right hand off and ship

it to the place beneath night’s cold embrace. 

I’ll grow resigned to life’s uncertain grip

upon which only words will leave a trace.

With every word I leave myself across

these weathered pages etched with lasting lore.

Where you now find peace was built on great loss

but torn remains make way for souls to soar.

For they too saw a burden to be borne —

the silent ghosts formed from their childhood rites —

haunting minds yet breathing life every morn

and now they rest upon their holy sites. 

So when my corpse snuffs light’s final spark

Know I’m well-versed with travels in the dark.