My Own Flesh and Blood

He hissed, uncurled and turned black,

His eyes were cold and hurried,

Her hair was like fire, and little points were in her eyes.

Blood is blood and you can’t get around it.

Remember, she’s your own flesh and blood!

But the fire had died down.

The wind was gusty, chill and raw after the warm days.

The cold inflectionless wire of his voiced carried.

Shrouded in darkness, two sets of eyes lurked,

One cold and shrewd, with black ringed irises like marbles

The other cold and querulous, so dark as to appear to be all pupil or iris.

And from the darkness, a promising light,

Only one flame was in it. Rebelliously bright,

It was still burning.