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Without End


Clutched tight to my heaving chest
I hold a frightened child,
A soon to be failed protector am I,
For upon my death is she open
To all forms of attack from our foes,
And she may not follow where my soul goes.

The demons of the light now are come
In winged serpentine form grotesque,
And attacking with light birthing flame
Do they blind me for that fateful moment
When they may strike for the child I hold,
She the sole link to my life of old.

And I turn my back upon them so as to
Protect with my flesh that of the innocent,
And even as my ebon wings shrivel and burn,
Even as my skin cracks and weeps boiling blood,
Still do I utter unto her gentle ear
A lullaby to stave off her fear.

In the moment of surcease as the fiends
Circle for another approach do I,
With great tenderness and care place my child
Upon the scorched and withered earth
And walk to meet our foes with what might
I may glean from the coming night.

For without the child now resting
In her bower of ashes and my blood,
My soul be lost and I become as one
Of the wyrms with which I war,
For she be the last single shred
Of my past the rest of which now lies dead.

And this I cannot abide at all!
For to lose not only humanity as have I,
But all memory of it as I have not,
Is to lose what little be left to see
Of my battered, disheveled grace,
And the tears upon my face.

For though I weep in bitterness,
Still are the tears my release from misery
Such as that jest may be called,
To lose my beloved child and my tears
Would make me that which I swore to fight
Beneath a sky bedraped with the chill of night.

Thirteen paces from my frightened charge,
I halt and raise mine eyes to gloomy skies,
For beneath night's watchful gaze
Which caresses my pained soul,
Do I stand at least the barest chance
To surpass mine enemies' fiery dance.

And though my wings be burnt and torn
And my flesh blistered, cracked and raw,
Still do I raise myself up to meet
The collective gaze of my opponents fell,
Seven to fight there be at this final stand,
And I with nary a weapon in hand.

As is is as must be then I fear,
Yet with the ever growing darkness
Do my wounds begin to heal and close
And my wings to flutter upon an ephemeral breeze,
I, the beast forbidden of true grave
Standing to do battle a mere child to save.

And finally the twisted sun
Beyond the horizon sinks into shadow
Cloaking in inky black this barren land,
And though encircled by predators foul,
Engulfed by the stench of their carrion breath,
I pray and utter the fifty names
Pleading forgiveness ere the battle my many shames.

My jet-black wings unfold and my wrists I cross
Before my breast in my chosen stance,
Yet no move to attack do I make
But rather raise my face and voice to the stars above
In keening, bitter lament for my plight,
And give obeisance to my Mother, The Night.

And the force of my sorrow, a thing anathema
To these creatures of flame and greed, forces
Upon my foes unwanted pain for they be
Immune not to another's guilt, only their own,
And as they lay wracked by agonizing spasms
I watch until their eyes be naught but empty chasms.

Thirteen paces I now retrace to find
The child nestled amongst the ashes still
Gazing up at I, her savior upon this eve (she thinks),
Yet she is my savior though she knows it not,
And once more born in my arms now free of scars,
Shall she again soar safe amongst the uncaring stars.

R. W. Calvert

For Questions, please contact the VC Magazine Staff at VCMagazine_Staff@yahoogroups.com

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