The life-giving sun itself descends - not westward,
But outward, into the distance, towards oblivion.
We are on the brink of some great departure;
It can be felt in the restlessness of our feet,
In the unseasonable declination of the light.
Behold! Over the water a blood moon is rising;
From afar may be heard the long clarion blast,
And the wind is consumed in charcoal and ash.
Somewhere awakens an all-consuming Nemesis,
It's breath stale with the reek of blood,
Its eyes alight with the fever of the hunt.
You, who read the bloody portent of the runes,
Who hear the banshee keening in the night,
You, who know surging rivers, and the tidal flood,
Onward, through the impenetrable darkness!
Through the shriek and howl of the Moirai!
You, torch bearers, the path lies before you!
You, who with eyes open see the shadow,
Who have the courage to face the darkness,
You who bear the lamp alone, may find Elysium
Copyright 2018 Brent Hightower
* Image source unknown