A Pome

The tendril stretch of dim lit night,
The ache of sullen bones.
The wisecrack jokes of men not met,
Slither of steel that groans.

Wither thou goeth, in darkness bright
Where shadows wilt and fade?
Whence brilliance and beauty cast for the right
And misery, in honor, laid.

Seek not the face that haunts the moon,
Nor stars that falter near.
For messengers arriving soon
Bring news of hate and fear.

Take sword, take shield, take many men.
Take heart--do not take long.
A horror comes from beyond the ken,
A terror rhymed in song

Strike out, and fight, the battle cries
Will scream from noon to morn.
Within that seedless night of eyes
So few will see the dawn.

And thus the legend, born of the dead,
Is formed in Isthangor.
Full tales of heroes, badly led,
And who the Lilacs bore.


© S.J. Willing 2006