𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐈𝐓 / the palace of his mind a winter without reason , the dark halls howling with wind , the scent of old blood , fresh blood , layers of metallic rust , dripping walls. fingers made twitchy , nervous , perfect resettle glasses onto his nose , lenses and frames cutting across vision. blocking out the best and the worst of his sight. a voice sharp , dripping in blood , baring hazy milky irises and bone antlers says: ‘ see ? see ? ‘ and he cuts off the thought , a bird falling off of a wire. his gut drops , his eyes close , a moment of pained concentration sliding across his closed off features. “ what ? singing sweetly and empty ? the easy to swallow truth ? “ the bird takes flight , snaps a fish between sharpened claws. “ i’ve always preferred .... hawks myself. “