archaic lanterns

Blazes of glory at midnight
Flicker ever so slightly in misfit murkiness
A gilded cage, his own creation
The deleterious flames; a gratifying nectar

The traveller gripped his lantern by his breast
Sputters of blood dripped from his chafed lips
Respiratory constitution, all for momentary warmth
Mystifying effects, that of which he was aware

He stopped, a moment of rest
Besides him, the lantern grew a bloodshot orange
He stole a glance at the shattered glass; a horrible transfiguration
The serenity of rationalism and courage
Overpowered urges, forged in heresy

Lanterns were known for their lead traced fumes
A cautionary tale; appreciable distance, quite the necessity

A quick dust off the cloak
He tossed aside the wavering blemish
The cold took over his limbs; rendered his journey impossible
He much preferred the continual frost, than cruel moments of comfort
An iron-willed being, he found the lock
Weary, fatigued; yet finally free

Untethered strings, now free of knots
To be or not to be healed, can they ever?

~Lukshya