To what horizons are we headed for
When four walls close? All day I see the grey
Blurred patterns, feel the tightening, reddening sore
Left by a single cuff, without a way
To cut the bonds of long, heavy hair, or
Make sense of narratives without an end.
So I will travel far to distant plains
Through storms and sands and seas and swamps and rains
To where Colossi roam on grassy land –
Those sentinels who stride like oaks, with moss
For hair and burning lamps for eyes. They stand
Before the gilded gates of time and loss
Where seven sages sleep by hourglass sand.
But when the sages wake they call to me:
“Thy sword, lift up thy sword unto the light
And blest this hea’enly sword will be, young knight!”
To Outlands I will ride and seal my fate.
Predestined paths of flame shall sear and come
To make the barren realm disintegrate
In fire and ash. Diablo rises from
The smoky pyre; his hot desire to sate
Eternal hunger fuels and endless fight.
I face oblivion. An hourglas turn
Will bid me briskly once again return
To rolling hills. But every blade of grass
That shines too vividly, and every swing
Of sparkling sword, I know, will sing of farce
The more I undertake this task. Oh bring
Your story in my temporal life to pass
And give me purpose set apart from my
Own vain desires. A sword of Spirit I
Must wield beneath a vast and boundless sky.