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Array
(
[sid] => 145856
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Grimoire: I. A Road Less Traveled
[time] => 2008-10-22 23:20:40
[hometext] => Canto 1 of my personal descent into the depths of hell.
[bodytext] => I walked beyond the mortal realm into the land of night, Where from the midnight garden hails the bearer of the blight; A demoness without a face, though eyes did plague her skin; The keeper for the underworld who weighs each idle sin. The thorn-filled path from whence I came had led me to her throne, Atop a mound of tortured corpses stripped of flesh and bone. T was there she sat, a relic of an age bereft of time, Forever chained to pass her judgement on each hollow crime. No soul could flee beyond her sight nor break away her gaze, For there she sat the beacon for the pyre and the blaze. A hundred eyes she trained on others, cold like winter frost. Though with her only loving eye she pined at what she lost. To everyone that walked the path, the garden's mien was dim; It grew decay and withered fruit, the stalkers, dark and grim. But through the keeper's single eye she saw a place of peace. She yearned for life within that realm, whose lies would never cease. So there I made my journey start, I walked afoot her mound I knelt upon the dusty floor, one knee upon the ground. Her voice rang loud and clearly spoke without a moments pause. A question reamed an echo, and an my answer was my cause. “A mortal in his native flesh, whose lungs still hold to breath. What worthy mission here could yield a promise not of death?” Her question begged an answer where a single word would do So with a calm and warming tongue I told her what was true. The reason for my coming, for the journey that I've made; The only reason one might have to never be afraid. “Love”. An answer found as simple as an answer then could be, Though in the heart of loneliness, too complex for one to see. You see that word, that single sound, had once meant all the world But after she was thrown from grace, her memories unfurled. They loosened all her senses, as they scattered with the wind A frail enveloped tempest through the garden where she sinned. But where confusion stained her breast, that cold and fruitless hole, She clamored shrieks of heartless boasts, devoid of mind and soul. Before her rage and misdirection proved a deadly threat, A shade came forward from the crowd and left me in his debt. He wondered past my place of rest and blocked me from her stare. He hid me in his shadow like a small and frightened hare. A phantom of his former self, for blood no longer flowed But still his words produced an aura that may well have glowed. A master of the written word, whose poem had shaped belief His journey told before my time had filled me with relief. Now not man, man once he was, a laureate of his age. He once found guidance by the wisdom of another sage. His mask was undeniable, his woken state divine. For there the poet Dante stood, his stature quite define. With silver tongue and way of word, he spoke in my defense, The terms of my bewildered passage past her iron fence. “This pious mortal knelt before you in his great esteem Is product of His higher order, fodder of His scheme. A beacon for emotion and a motion wrought of love. Whose call has caught the watchful eye of beings from above.” “My cause is to deliver him beyond your fastened gates And guide him in his journey through the land of morbid fates. So open wide your latches and regain your sense of sight For in your rash intrepid rage, you've lost all of your light.” From there the locks were broken and the gateway did unwind, Revealing paths more decadent, more pleasant to the blind. A rough and broken roadway through a land I'd never seen, Apart from in the written word of Homer and between. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 183 [topic] => 13 [informant] => gravehorn [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 15 [ratings] => 3 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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