The Spark and the Smoke

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By: Wolmek Posted on: December 31, 2007



This is a poem about the re-ignition of the Burning Times by the Archprelate Rho Evensong and his Anointed by burning down the library of the Revolutionaries of Chaos in Hashan.


~_


The skies they were darkened and sere


The bluebells turned idly pursuing


the tail of the north wind, unheeding


the throng that would be their undoing;


The throng restless 'round the Archprelate:


nervous, abating their fear


with the calm of their veiled Archprelate


watching the bluebells' slow weaving.


The skies they burnt crimson, enraptured


The sand cowered down, slowly shirking


from the dead finger scorching its skin


from the sign of the twin, bright azure.


The gathered faithful, marked akin


stood awed by the burning azure


as a dead voice breathed, clouding and murking


their minds with glib, beguiling words.


The skies they were sombre and gray


The bluebells stood tense and despairing


watching the torches passed around


The Archprelate nods and a light


is passed until each torch is flaring;


they wait fervent, blessing the Light


when a door creaks and without a sound,


the Archprelate leads the way.


The skies they burnt red, a dull copper


The sand begged the wind to efface


the circle that burnt it, in vain.


The cards stayed still where they'd been placed.


While the Dragon stood charging his Death,


the Prophet harangued those gathered to pace


themselves with the times, that his death


was the death of the illusion maintained


by those who find comfort in Order.


The skies they were leaden and sober


The bluebells hung pallid and drear


The skies they were ashen and smeared


with the grey of the smoke that was rising-


the bluebells were scented with fear


with the fear, with the smoke that was rising-


from the fire that enveloped the bower


the spark that the Archprelate reared.


The skies they burnt bronze, slowly dusking


to black. The sand eddied in frenzy.


The skies they traced in the far northern


reaches, a grey line now winding


across the bronze. Sand-blinded many


gathered, now gazed at the winding


line, muttering with concern,


a question that needed no asking.


The skies they were weathered and dusted


The bluebells sank dead and despaired


of hope. A far, mountaintop quivered


with the weight of the Archprelate's zeal


and failing to bear the weight, aired


to the world, the new revenant zeal


of the Light and those few who answered


the call to arms, the true Anointed.


The skies they were opaque, sans mercy,


sans surcease; the sands purged the circle


and flung the cards to deep, dank caves.


The Prophet trudged back to the Crown,


his faithful found nought salvageable.


The Prophet sifted through the crowns


of bluebells choked by the grey leaves


of the lore from aeons passed by.


The skies they will burn with the dawn


the bluebells now buried, anew


will birth a new breed for the morrow.


The sands will roll by. As time heals


all wounds, so this war will pass on;


But, alas, as time wounds all heels,


we will know glory, know sorrow


and sing 'em or stage 'em for you.