A gentle rain begins to fall,.


    They are the soft tears of a distant


    and reticent deity, weeping


    for a world that has abandoned us.


    I cease my prayers


    at the lip of dawn;


    where sorrows flicker and fade


    like stars in the morning air,


    while the moon stares down


    with blank expression


    upon my pleading face,


    now muted by the


    imagined replies of a


    stern and unforgiving god.


    She watches me still,


    the distant love,


    the ideal that I strove for


    that broke me,


    time and time again.


    Still I kneel before her,


    giving thanks


    for the glory of strange dawns


    in distant worlds,


    cocooned in magic.


    The rain beats down harder


    on my bowed neck-


    the gentlest of reprimands


    for my silent blasphemies,


    the sin of resentful exhaustion,


    the desire for an end,


    an obliteration that is absolute.


    But if you will not give me strength,


    then I will take it,


    from the bellies of behemoths


    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.and the throats of leviathans,


    that have washed upon the shores


    of this forgotten place.


    Yet I dare not approach


    those dark shapes on the strand –


    something in the rain


    has quickened them to life again,


    and they stir and shiver


    in the turbulent air,


    crimson eyes seeking prey


    even as they are drawn back


    by some macabre act of Heaven


    from the brink


    of their own destruction,


    while rain falls,


    beaten down by the relentless


    whips of the wind.


    A horn moans somewhere,


    unseen on this grey-clad dawn,


    and love and hate drum as one


    from my heart in arrhythmic beats,


    calling to mind a black moment


    when I cast something


    into a deep and wild Abyss,


    while the winds of a fierce tempest


    created a silence that thrummed


    with its own emptiness


    within my chest.


    My hands, bloodied by


    my own passions


    upon the bones of mine enemies


    now rise like guided spirits


    to Heaven, covered now by


    the milling shrouds


    of deceptions, cast


    like a pall over all the world,


    and the crimson melds


    with the cleansing spirit of the downfall.


    This fire-honed edge gathers


    no rust in the deluge


    of these relentless thoughts,


    but emerges sharp enough


    to cut through fate.


    I have laid my sword at your feet


    in a silent pledge of my fealty


    to your immortal cause,


    having bloodied it


    upon the throat


    of the unbidden memories


    of ice and loneliness.


    And still the rain


    falls


    and


    falls


    and


    falls...