The nightmares of the innocent
begin when the
closet doors
are left open,
and foul and hungry things
creep under the beds
and hide
in the corners.
The barrier to the netherworld
is shored up and reinforced
by closet doors.
Be vigilant
in their care and cleaning.
Keep them free of shadows
and they will leave,
and wait
until
a more opportune time.
The hatchlings’ tiny, shiny feathers
gild and grace the handle of the pipes,
and all the peace in the world
that was never attained,
broken by the strife and suffering
of humanity’s merciless
love of power
over other forms of dust,
is healed in the smoke,
blessed by
colorful fledgling feathers
that will never
feel the sun and wind and rain,
and
master the sky.
All those ages past.
All these ancient gods.
All of these organs, bodies, and bones
tossed into all these fires.
All these prayers and offerings
of flesh, gold, and precious stones.
And the scent of all these flowers
and perfumes to hide
the stench of rot.
All these signs and sigils,
symbols, runes, and ruins.
All these spirits of light and dark,
summoned by all these tongues
speaking spells of power.
All silent now.
All dead forever.
All covered
in soil and sand
for
all time.
The tales grow brittle,
left untold,
The incantations, dry.
The knight, the dragon,
and the maid forgotten,
left to die.
The warrior and the quarry
cease their endless chasing game,
and all the wild in all the world
is culled, and dulled, and tame.
The story-laden stars go dark.
The magic creatures cry.
The lantern flowers give no light,
and fae no longer fly.
Beware the rift of magic
separated from the earth.
No hero comes to save the day.
There is no death or birth.
The stories lay forgotten now
on dusty, splintered shelves.
Thus we abandon to the void
the better of ourselves.
Silent now,
this once rambunctious band
of warriors.
All of them
silent now,
except me.
All these years later,
I still remember
the Elder’s advice
as she covered her knees
with her blanket.
“The cause you fight for
will never be absent
in the world,
for the hearts of men are
ever self-serving.”
She watches from among the stones
and remembers the day
she saw her son die.
I mourn with her,
prayerful, fearful,
in the light as she fades from view,
her tears gray as
rainclouds,
and colder than
death.
For those who clean the fighting pits
will never dream of glory,
to spill the blood of champions
and spill their guts so gory.
There never will be scribes to tell
the legends of their story.
To scrub away the offal of mankind
is ancient history.
In different lands
they call it by a
another category.
I’ve been made to understand
you’ve tamed the voices in your head,
and slaughtered to silence those
around your heart.
It’s no small thing you’ve accomplished.
You must yell ever louder,
and cut yourself until they bleed too.
Twist them slow and painfully,
like a rusty top forcefully pried
off the warped rim of a broken jar.
Grind them until their screams stop.
Take, then, the piece of you that survived the
furnace and the crucible,
and withstood the elements
of scientific arrogance
eroding the world,
and escape to
the quiet of your soul.
Watch the chaos of life leak,
streaking down the windows,
streaking down your face,
in the silent wailing
of the tamed voices,
and name yourself their
Master.
How are there candles burning
in these shadowed, drafty halls?
How is it that I gaze upon
the bones within the walls?
There are no parties held here now,
no balls or grand affairs,
so why do I see people laugh and drink
and talk in pairs?
The voices started softly, gently,
calling out my name.
And by the end I yelled and cried,
but no one ever came.
The halls are bright and festive now,
and full of fever dreams.
The voices and the laughter drown
the terror in my screams.
And still the candles burn here,
ever melting, never gone.
I guess I am the lighter then,
so I’ll be moving on…
The darkness is an old friend and familiar lover.
Evil slips me on like a knife’s sheath,
and the demons of dead things walk in my wake.
They whisper love as evil,
and cut to drink from feeding veins
like children with straws bent and circled
back on themselves, watching
the dizzy, helpless liquid
unable to resist the pull
of its destiny.
The darkness smiles at me,
releasing a hint of lavender to
bring me through the
noisome rot of old, toppled stones
and trees that have seen too many
secret trysts of betrayal.
It is all one to me,
a final wanton plunge into
forbidden pleasures of torture eternal,
and I am forbidden to ever return.
For I am old and lonely, child.
My time is growing short.
The fiendish things inside this place
now hunt us for their sport.
For I am tired and weary, child,
of things that chase and bite.
The fiendish things within these walls
pursue us through the night.
Well I am sick of running, child.
I think that I will stay
to fight the fiendish at our backs,
so make your getaway.
I only ask, remember me
as you live out your days,
and never use your magic gift
for learning fiendish ways.
I hear them growing closer, child.
My violent end is nigh.
To die in crimson polyglot’s
a soldier’s way to die.
Now run! Make haste! Go quickly, child.
But first, a kiss farewell.
And don’t look back to see the swarm
of fiendish things from hell.
Alone within the shadowed crypt,
I face the demon horde.
And make my peace with holy gods,
and draw my heathen sword.
BlackQuill 