I don't believe you anymore
Your embrace I no longer cherish
Your mask of becoming-warm has burnt these fingers beyond mortal reckoning
I wrote odes of praise and of love's remnants swirling in the deathbirds' angled swath

The long winding whisper of an age within the wooded prison, and escape was unknown
And then Fate played its hand, as I stumbled upon the secret path
I was not spared from the Other’s vengeful wrath
Her kisses were tocsin that flew from ragged cheek to ravaged lips

Heresy was beauty unprofessed until the very last tendrils of the hour
Any false pretense was strengthened by the wine that descended, that grew sour
Some say her visits saved him from further damnation, seeking to draw his card first
But in the end as we see the pieces fit; none gave out the final thrust as the kiss filled out her thirst

But the end was not found in this swift embrace
Life indeed has entered a drought, as the spirits' chain was dragged to show him the way to Heaven
Death in her graceful dance has not peeked through her ambered glass to sweeten this short race
Amidst the confusion; my poor, withered heart has almost forgotten the blessed taste of your sweet face

As it were, my dreams are filled with dread anticipation
The bitter saccharine of a song twined deep in this sleep, and dozens of the Fae were slain in her favor
It was a dark age when the machinery of the Beast was not yet common parlance, it was the Tower afar
The day was fraught with peril, the paladins roused and summoned, and were given the Order for War

The Nobles sought to break away from the film that shunted the light of day from their weeping eyes
Her Highness issued forth commands for the bravest to dodge the Adversary and keep faith against the lies
There seemed a pervading numbness that crawled from the bog's deepest breach to the blue sheltering skies
And finally the Lord-of-Morning cried out from the natal womb to defy the cyan of the delving mystified 

In his cloak, a shining array of colors whence once and for all to pierce the gloom of sickness and woe
The warriors strode forth with the swiftest burst of swords, to champion the cause of a world that suffered
There was a river of blood where lay the monster spawned from bile and malice given a dubious reason
The Other with its leathery wings consumed from under the tide, and deceit gave willingly into treason

The single flower of a long-standing devotion kept pure, held fast; for the rage worth my life's-blood flow 
Your clarity of vision, and kindness unbridled was the one thing that mattered in my dust-choked  heart
A dance was life-giving water to a throat that knew no mercy, stranded in the desert of this lonesome eve 
It was your eyes that lent me enough Love to last the horror of the constant slaughter,

It was your Love that gave me back my Life, your hands which cleared away dried blood from these eyes
Your whispered song cleansed my doubt-encrusted soul with a generous measure of vibrant Hope
Drawn from the endless stream was water which washed away the venom of anger, the awful nocturnal cry
From whence we were born into darkness forbidden, you restored the estranged son back to his Father

Thus, he shared the Secret that warmed the hearts of all who heard, amidst toil and trouble
As they lay dying in the muck of blood and scarred bog their Angels were brought forth with his speech
And everything from drab and soiled turned bright morning-blue and everlasting gold-and-green again
The lady in her shimmering gossamer and velvet held him one last time before he ascended

"You are my One,
Without you I am None"

And for once, the world knew 
what was promised in dearest Heaven.

The first part of the piece holds closer to being from the Book of the Game of You, being a riddle first, 
and slowly opens up to reveal clues as to the object in question.  The first few lines may very well be 
the fourth in the long-standing series of poems about “the spiral blue” (the author plainly unwilling to 
reveal anything else about the Game…). 

And further on, the piece progresses into a meandering account of another tally between the forces 
of good and those held in thrall by the Adversary.  It is unknown at this point, and well until the end 
whether the darkling “Her”, and the Adversary are partners or just one being.

The speaker is part of the contingent of highly-skilled warriors bestowed with Honor and Sacrifice 
(“paladins”, or the Paladine, in older writings), bearing the task of defending Love and Light against 
this ancient, unnamed Evil. “She”, the flower of Hope is introduced around the mid-part of the piece; 
representing all that is good in the face of adversity. 
Without this angel  the world and all its wonder might have been lost.

That is all that is to be said of the Angel. She too, remains nameless: 
for this remains in the author’s heart as the last golden strand, 
holding together the heart, mind and Soul. 
 

99 March 1 (exactly a year ago from today !)
(c) copyright owned by Siddharta Somar