Ytheon - Land of Torment

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is the first in an anthology of poems penned between 1998 & 2002. The title of the anthology is 'The Parables of Ytheon'. At the time I was inspired by the likes of John Bunyan (Pilgrim's Progress), Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and even some of the old Norse sagas.

Submitted: July 30, 2017

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Submitted: July 30, 2017



Ytheon, Land of Torment: (An Introduction)


This World,

Ah - the heartache and pain -

But the breath-taking beauty too,

Is nourished by the loving hands

Of the Spirit whose mighty reign

Is forever steadfast and true.

And the Mother tends to her need.

Faithful is her love,

And strong the Spirit’s arm.

If only they who dwell in her bounty

Would revere her as they ought,

Then would she be free from all harm.


But - alas - There the Great City of Arrogance,

Caring for none but her own.

Despite the Grace she has been given,

She refuses to be part of the Great Dance,

She ignores the path she was shown,

And disregards the way to Heaven.

A blight on the landscape,

She stands and defies

All that her heart knows to be true.

Vainly believing that she will escape,

Through her half-truths and blatant lies,

The Grace that even now pursues.


As a slave she allows herself to be sold

To the ravages of discord,

And the anarchy of despair.

Though her spirit has turned cold,

And nought that comfort to her affords,

She is not beyond the reach of Care.

The Mother’s arms would enfold her,

And wash all her hurt away,

And soothe her heart’s deepest pain.

And Great Spirit longs to embrace her,

And see that none would lead her astray,

And see her smile once again.


Her slavery extends throughout the Land,

And none can escape its dreadful grasp.

The Spirits that freely roamed the Virgin World,

Now hide in fear,

As o’er their mouths their hands are clasped.

The Forests cry out in the wind that blows,

And the polluted rivers cry.

Alas Ktisma’s madness continues unabated,

And there’s none to question why.

But the time draws near,

And is indeed at hand,

When Creation’s weeping will be heard.


And in that City of Darkness,

In expectation lives a soul,

And alone he walks the streets.

He longs for Love’s warm brightness,

To warm that void so cold

Where his heart in anticipation beats.

Then - when all hope seems to be at an end -

A ray of Light appears.

The gloom for once is gone.

Grace at last to his soul’s needs attends,

And calms his darkest fears

With the brightness of the Sun …



© Copyright 2019 Tristan Biggs. All rights reserved.

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