Tuesday, March 11, 2014

At the Shrine of the Godless

Deep in the woods
where the light filters down,
and the godless kneel
with their heads to the ground,
not a creature stirs and
the wind is still
as it pauses to hear
a dead man’s will.

For this is the shrine
of murderers, knaves;
people whose fingers
outnumber their days.
This is the place
where the scoundrels go
before they are tied
in a hangman’s bow.

For here, if they cry
there’s a chance they’ll be heard
by the creature who’s bound
by iron and word—
and if they are lucky, and
if they are blessed,
the darkness won’t hear and
their death will mean rest.

But if they are cursed
and their mutterings true,
they’ll waken the demon
whom God never knew.
They’ll take their place
in the deathcap row,
spirits entrapped here
forever ago

by the violence and evil that
sooted their hearts,
withered their conscience,
corrupted their arts. 
Yet still they will kneel,
though they hear the cries
of the dead men before them
who clung to their lives,

for this is the place
where the dead men grow,
this is the shrine
of the godless.

2 comments:

  1. LOVE IT!! *shivers & goosebumps* :D

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  2. *\o/* Hurrah! I felt a bit squidgelly posting poetry to the blog, but anyway. Yay! I'm glad you liked it!! :D *cookies*

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