The Guardian, Bound – A lamentation

by May 15, 2002Poetry

And on and on goes the long, dark march.
The Guardian, Bound

I am the veil upon his brow, that shrouds him from the truth of night- of phantoms and nightmarish sight.
He sees, he gains- pursued, in pursuit.
My whisper of doom awakens him.

I am the warning that whispers of fear, that heralds the blade that brings the night.
He bleeds, he rides, in darkness and light.
I cry “the glow is waning.”

I am the inkling of fate that blooms, that sears his heart and seals his doom.
He writhes, he waits, and then he speaks-
The deep dark lies closer than I.

I am the river that carries him far, that cradles his weight, his life and his heart.
He lists, he turns, but never does bend.
He was rent- outside and then in.

I am the horror as he joins hands in trust, with hate, with death, with green eyes of lust.
He pities, he sleeps- amid wraiths and rock.
And on and on goes the long, dark march.
And ever on goes the long, dark march.

I am not the bread, nor the host of grace, but the gentle light upon his face.
Weary, he sleeps. Wary, he waits.
The darkness is hiding, is biding her time.

I am the light that stays him in sickness, in dark, in stench and in venomous hiss!
He stands, he hopes, he runs- not alone.
But the sting of the darkness is quick- and slow.

I am silence in the dark; I am grief under stars; I am fallen; and I am night.
He lies, pale, under the cleft of She.
But not alone- no, never alone.

I am the echo of violated being, of violent fear thrashed black to despair.
He is undone- even Fate hides her eyes.
Wouldst fly? Wouldst save? Wouldst die? As would I.

I am the memory that affords him no help; I cannot forget but cannot give hope.
He toils; he rests; he reaches and recoils.
The darkness is without and within.

I am the fire that watches yet still, though fearfully, terribly I know what It wills.
He breaks; he falls; he dies yet lives.
And the darkness…it drowns itself.

I am the song that tempers his grief, the shouting, the praise of the weary and meek.
He cannot join in; he ponders his heart.
For the sound cannot drown out the dark.

I am the tears of those left far behind, silent and lost in the great gulf of grief.
He sails; he sees- as a scroll is the sky.
And his heart, it does burn at the sight.

And the darkness will fade in the light.


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