I Am My Father’s Iron Son

I am my Father’s iron son
with gravel lips and flame for breath.
My gaze is steel – my words weigh tons,
I drink the cup that tastes like death,
then speak with ash upon my tongue
a furnace voice, a bell once rung.

They tried to tame me with their peace,
but peace is forged by sword and trial.
I bled beneath their sweet caprice
then rose and marched the extra mile.
They asked for muted – I gave them bedrock,
the appointed stone built from gods dethroned.

I carved my prayers in oaken bark,
beneath the howl of winter’s snare.
They told me quiet – I struck a spark
and burned their silence into prayer.
I do not beg, I do not bend
I roar. I war. I rise. I mend.

I am the seed that split the flame,
the dog who bit the master’s hand.
I wear my scars without a name,
a ghost that devils understand.
My Father gave me blood and Fleshwind
not for retreat, but holy death.

I name the stars like deeds to claim,
not lights to wish on, faint and far.
I do not gaze – I stake, I aim
I weigh the winds like judges’ scars.
I split the drought with scarred abundance
and plant dominion in its place.

When demons dance, I draw and grin.
When Babylon sings peace, I fight.
I plant my heel on coward sin
and crush the lie with gospel glow.
I laugh where others fear to tread
the coal, the blade, the breaking bread.

I will not soften for their sleep,
nor pitch my voice to soothe their shame.
I sow where only lions reap,
then speak my Father’s holy name.
Not as a murmur – but a drum
I am a storm. I cannot run.

We are the sons of roaring skies,
not fashioned fine,  but hammered true.
Through siege and smoke, we rise, we rise
with truth for shield and heat for shoe.
And when they ask what man I be
I say:  the bedrock God rolled for me.