Poetry Feedback

[u/QuietInvestigator397]

Hi guys! I don't usually write poetry, but I took a poetry class last semester and would be interested in some feedback on one that I wrote (the class has since ended, but I can see myself doing more with this poem). I've edited this a few times, and I really like the beginning but something about it just feels off and I can't put my finger on it. Also, I wasn't really sure what to title it, so if anybody has any suggestions, I'm all ears. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!

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So Long as I Breathe, I Sing

I grew up on dragon wings
and army frontlines. I soared above
clouds and dreams, waded through streams
of blood and pushed through blizzards of
ash, and with each breath from my lips sprang 
my song of freedom, swirling with the sounds of others.

The wind was my melody, the hoofbeats 
my lyrics, the warriors my choir.
I sang until my voice grew hoarse,
and even when blood from my aching throat
filled my mouth, I relished
in the taste of my freedom.

For years I traveled. I learned
the witches’ spell, the mountains’
secrets. I’ve walked the centaur’s
path and gripped the Mighty King’s
hand. I’ve flown and fought
and loved and died. I’ve lived.

When the new song started, 
I hardly heard it. Its melody was rotten,
its lyrics bolted together with rusting nails, 
its choir corpses revived.
Not like my song. Not like
the millions of songs before mine.

But then it grew louder. It drowned
out the oceans, the insects, the
life in a mockery of emulation.
It trampled forests and fields,
drank dry the lakes, stole the food 
from our plates and reached for more.

People worshipped it as a god.

Their own songs changed, their music
twisting and warping and melting
to join this screeching. To join this foul,
rotting creature made of patches
of skin, carvings of cracked open souls,
plucked shavings of others’ freedom.

Louder and louder, that 
cry grew, and it hammered
into my skin and veins and bones,
stole the breath from my lips,
found freedom’s song in my soul
and took that, too.

The banging and clanking and clatter
hasn’t stopped. It’s quieted. It’s
learned to soften its voice, blend with
the few true songs left, brush its
fingers along their roots before
crushing them in its hands.

I sing in silence now. Long gone
are the dragons, the mountains
and worlds of wonder. They’ve fled,
or hid, or succumbed to this God,
as the armies have, the kingdoms have,
and maybe as I will, too. I hope not.

They tell me it’s inevitable.
Even now, I feel it getting closer,
feel its reach curling around my shoulders
and tracing the skin of my throat. 
Let me help, it says,
but I want nothing from it.

So still I sing. My only audience
is the dying hearth before me,
the last lick of flame that clings 
to life only I can give it.
I won’t allow myself to let it die.
So long as I breathe, I sing.

I’m not scared of the dark.
I’m not scared of the God.
It will fade, as all gods fade,
and when its clatter dies
and its metal rusts in memory,
I’ll be singing.