The fire in the belly of the mantle
lowly roars.
With it, the harmony of the beacon.
Though, as with all great scores, there must be an end.
When the last line of the melody is played
and the final note clings to the air
then decays.
As did the beacon so.
Drawing its last breath
and light slipping unto the dark.
With hurried steps
the Maiden makes her climb
Through the cherry staircase
onward and upward
the tower.
Falling, with all of the world's weight,
she weeps.
Her tears darkening the floorboards
like black ink on a yellow stained page
She could feel the call.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
The fire in the belly of the mantle
lowly roars.
With it, the harmony of the beacon.
Though, as with all great scores, there must be an end.
When the last line of the melody is played
and the final note clings to the air
then decays.
As did the beacon so.
Drawing its last breath
and light slipping unto the dark.
With hurried steps
the Maiden makes her climb
Through the cherry staircase
onward and upward
the tower.
Falling, with all of the world's weight,
she weeps.
Her tears darkening the floorboards
like black ink on a yellow stained page
She could feel the call.
This is part VII of a ten-part story titled "Weathered: A Tale of Love and Loss." When creating this story early on, I really wanted to have a section that contained two parts. I felt that using the beacon in this instance would be to the advantage of the story.
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