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When it seems too hard,
Stop. And it is me alone That I am trying to convince. And it may be that you will not. On and on you’ll fly, perhaps, Into that bright flash Of brilliant light That awaits “the faithful” But I am not; faithful that is, To the God of my own ambition. I am a fickle follower, A traitor. And I both hate And admire myself for it. And it dies a slow death Within my bosom. In the meantime, I chant the mantra In the hopes that it will take. She stands on the edge
Of the sacred wood At the end of the trail Where the lumberman stood When he felled the last Of the sacred trees And then fell down dead Of an April breeze. And when he died She looked upon him With dispassion. Do you fear The lady of the wood? You should. Did you know That she awaits your ruin And does not fear Your deepest displeasure. To her, it is the sweetest song. It is the music That turns round The clock That unwinds itself And soon will stop. And on that day The lights will go out Upon the town. And the hosts of the forest Will come down And claim the thing That was lost. And what will you do then, When there are no more Towers left to topple? Better to make friends Of the forest folk While there’s still time. But I warn you; To step into the sacred wood Is to relinquish the thing You most fear losing. It is for that reason That few ever go there Accept to try To take it down. But in that They are disillusioned. For how can one hope To destroy the magic Of the wood That lies beyond perception? In the end, It is only their connection To the sacred That is lost, And the hollowed forest Remains untouched, Safely guarded. It is reserved For the believers In such things. And she is the queen Of the mystic realm And it is her That will lead The spirits Into battle, Not to conquer, But to watch them die Of an April breeze And not to flinch As the unbelieving hosts Sever the final string To that which they believed They worshiped. |
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February 2023
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