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.
BlackQuill 