Exile

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something I wrote a while back.

Submitted: December 05, 2006

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Submitted: December 05, 2006

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I.

Sanctuary retreats into loose exile.

A distant hunger carves its thin cavern

And the waning echo of things now past haunt this

dank and empty

Fortress...

 

 

II.

Prowling the outskirts,

the crave reverts to sated languor

(soon, in time)

Abated crime slinks not far from

the jaded brink of

slumbering madness.

Rage & sadness lie unseen, beneath the

cage of this façade,

What god unsheathes these shattered creatures,

to fall by the battered tombs, which

soon regress to scattered wombs

for the prophets unborn,

to wake upon the forlorn temples,

burning in the secret wars,

though few shall see,

nor hear.

 

III.

Standing guard, defenses raised,

the scarred armor,

long since charred by hate and fear,

is hardened now by fate, while

near, so near, dark legions draw forth

their arms,

to inflict such harm as chance allows

The hidden beast endows much savage hunger,

deep within, to

ravage sleeping midnight dreamers,

creeping toward forbidden sins.

A single dreamer from sleep fell,

to walk the slums of Hell alone, where

cast in stone, the spirits wailed,

a somber prayer for failed reprieve.

He'll never grieve for their damnation.

they concern him not.

 

IV.

Mirror armies torn asunder,

flee the wrath of the thunder's fury.

A sea of storms weeps for the fallen warriors,

lost within the tempest of

this silent apocalypse.

A great Eclipse descends upon this charnel city,

as the ashen cinders befall the black, decaying

hordes of mangled flesh, and

shattered bone.

Venomous lightening splinters the burning skies,

scorching the masses of the helpless dying.

The earth cracks & opens,

erupting from the abyss,

exhaling its black & sulfurous breath.

Liquid fire swallows the warring battalions.

Serpentine holocausts devour the ruptured empires.

Those terrifying screams rise,

a chorus,

a legion,

shrieking through the raging cataclysm.

Now comes the Harbinger,

emerging from portentous flames, and

boiling blood.

His whispered omens go unheard amid the

trembling throes of

armageddon.

 

V.

...the Fortress stands in hollow silence.

The halls, so dimly lit, harbor melancholy spirits,

wandering in absent grief.

Somewhere in a deep, hidden chamber,

by the light of a lonely lamp,

he sits in brooding silence,

with only a pen & paper to wake the

secret doors.

 


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