they lied

Circle the wagons: the bonfire burns.

Demons hide.
  Imagined dragons,
Their fire falls,
      Lick-lashing at the stride
Of repositioned pegs,
    At the purposed legs of all our dolls,
Vaporizing the dregs
  Of our stilted pride.
Circle the wagons:
          The wildfire burns,
      The clock-tower churns;
              Where would we ride,
          But to the song of squalls?
              Ride through, we will.
      That very wall calls
          Us into its crack,
Beneath banshee-shrill;
  We won’t look back.
    And, on their breath,
We were gone before they tried
      To catch us, afraid of death—
  They lack the vigor of life
That awakened us.

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