My druthers

rather take dense iron 
cherry red from smith work
placing upon my chest 
burning for eternity 
then stand without you

drag these apish knuckles 
in shattered glass
laying on a bed of iced nails 
from a winters fiercest hailstorm
before being without you

living breathless
locked in a medieval dungeon 
well before my time
fighting for existence itself
rather then wait, knowing not of a single chance

break sturdy bone with steel 
pressed by gods, repeating strikes 
being reminded of time controlled constraints 
holding back all that's needed to go on
instead of stalling in thought of what can be