He Who Walks – a poem

Phoenix talons bear his weight

On paths without name, irradiated

Skies black with cruelty cloudless

Lay as a far cry from nights warm

With quicksilver, bathed by ether.


Those days, other times, faintly lit

Pleasant recollections contrast hard

To the mood of now, how odd a change

From what was once, now become stark

With harsh tones shot in lurid reality.


Messiah, destroyer, pawn and harbinger,

Perceptions of old cave paint scrawls

Show visions and futures dire to recall

For mortals and all who might seek to ask

The way of one who walks on blades dark.


Stories were told in days yet still warm,

Ethereously bathed and kept without war,

Until came the stranger with promises apart

To peace draw from pale morals, to poison;

For he who walks, scarred hands bloody,

Licked by beastly wild tongues, borne by talons.


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