Cloak Of Nettles

The lights shine bright in heaven,
The coals burn hot in hell,
My cloak, it is of nettles,
And that is just as well.

The lining is serrated,
The hem, of spike caress,
A rose thorn at the collar,
And a needle at the chest.

I drift through fields of fire,
And I glide through seas of ice,
In my cloak of nettle spire,
Held together by a vice.

A shadow spark ignites the blaze,
A haze of flame, a maze of days,
A nova, sharp and bittersweet,
Against the light the daemon slays.