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Jun 8
They lie spread across
bloodied battlefields
with the fallen and
The Nephilim of old.
Swords caught on bone,
sheilds that cover
against the heat of
liminal hellish landscapes
still within sight of the
large golden gates
behind which sit,
on impossible throwns
surrounded by hosts of
horrifying misshapen
monsters of eldritch
origin and madness born,
The Father and Son
and the third ethereal
component which completes
in some small but huge
and mysterious way.
Among the carnage stands
our hero, his sword turned
so the dullest part faces
toward the legion he
stares down, his shield
strapped to the bleeding
useless arm hanging
limp by his side.
His cape ***** behind
him in some breeze
which brings no relief,
it seems impossibly long
and so too does his shadow.
And look, o' sons and daughters
in the darkest part of
his shadow we are huddled
against the noise and the heat.
Between us and the bitter
finish our hero digs his
feet into the dark, dusty ground.
His countenance grave
but determined. His brow
a tight triangle, his lips
a small drawn line,
his eyes narrowed.
We desire his victory
but expect his defeat
and we know we will
both be safe and also
tell his story, regardless
of the outcome, because
of the time he's providing.
But that should he lose
should he fall in his attempt
we will love him
for all of time.
Stand tall, sons and daughters
but know always that
the hero, our hero,
he shakes, ever so slightly.
His eyes are set
and grim but they are
glossy with tears he'll
never be allowed to shed.
He stands amid death
and consigns himself
for us but he still
must die alone
and afraid.
But then, o' sons and daughters
so do we all.
Written by
Paul Glottaman
35
   Rob Rutledge
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