Merrick, was he
And now farmer.
The ghost of the Euridi wars
But now simply father.

She gave unto him Ilo
And then passed.
A treasure from her *****.
For what more could he ask?

The grey in his hair
And the wrinkle upon his skin.
As his daughter kissed his cheek
He thought not of past sin.

Ilo sang as the angels
And glided with beauty.
But her sickness had doomed her
To waste away rudely.

Traveller Nner spoke of
Arcadia and the four ghosts of God.
Far away, over mountains
Plagued by demons and monsters odd.

Ilo can live again,
Warrior-farmer-father.
Across the desert, ocean, and mountains
Do not falter.

Staff in hand,
Upon Kerona he rides.
Eastward towards the ghosts
With Ilo's body by his side.

Dragon of desert lands,
From the sand to the sky, fly
Breathe of fire, brimstone
A war through the night.

Cut deep
The flesh of the fire breather.
For your daughter Ilo's soul
Hangs in the ether.

Victory and blood
But her body lies still.
No gain from this battle.
Only sorrow and hatred to feel.

Forward to the ocean,
To the lair of the giant serpent.
The one who drinks up the waters
And will not relent.

The mighty beast,
He steals away Ilo's body.
To the floor of the earth,
Beckoning Merrick hotly.

A foul beast has stolen
The body of my daughter.
Merrick breathes in all the air
And follows after.

A war under water,
Flesh and blood in twain.
****** into the belly of the beast.
A nameless grave.

Burst forth from the entrails,
Ripped, bitten, and torn.
Another beast overcame.
Another victory, though forlorn.

He holds her body
And her head against his.
A tear he permits.
His life would he give.

To the forests of Zalvest
To the lair of evil.
Black magic awaits
To unravel his meddle.

Trickery of the mind,
Manipulated with horror.
Recalling the gruesome battles of Euridi
And comrades lost to war.

Blinded by fear,
By the demon wizard of Zalvest.
How helpless he feels.
Lay the ghost to rest.

Acceptance of sin,
Parting with guilt.
A wizard rendered weak,
The evil-willed welps.

To the four ghosts of God
Atop the mountains of Arcadia.
Breathe life to Ilo
I have bested the sons of Echidna.

Not ghosts of God,
But of the devil.
A sacrifice for a life,
A hero laid low to their level.

And Ilo is raised,
Her breathe is now her own.
With his parting words
His love is shown.

On a night in December
In a pale stricken grey,
Laid beside my Isabella
In a dark winter's embrace.

As the moon shone down
To our valley below
Surrounded by the trees,
Where frost did grow.

Where we loved like wild creatures
And cared not for the outside world.
In our utmost feral delight
Our lust had unfurled.

And there was no grief
Nor sorrow or tear stricken eye.
Just the trees, the snow,
My Isabella and I.

A man who had lived his life in D Minor,
This man whom life had given a shiner,
Humbled and begged by the all night diner.
And spoke of a woman, how he nestled beside her.

His beard was stricken with soot and grey.
So grey that none could love it away.
Not to the color of amber of the fields that sway.
For the lips he had kissed had been led astray.

He spoke of forgiveness for a woman's misdeeds
And how her eyes were as blue as the seas.
To love often and treat hate like disease.
I could not outgive what he imparted to me.

You would cause as much damage, too,
If your love was ripped from you.
You would beat mercilessly on rooftops and rain
As much as the world could hold and remain.
You would tear families and loved ones apart
Just like she stole, from your chest, your heart.
But even your most gentle touch, when beginning anew,
Would cause heartache and crush marrow and sinew.

Down amongst the sorrows,
Amidst the muck and mire,
Where naught and trouble grows
And love waits to expire.
Where a lover's blue eyes
Can quickly turn black.
There, love is a lie
You can never retract.

Down amongst the sorrows,
Where I found myself ensnared,
I felt as if the gallows
And rope await me there.
But the executioner's smile
Was as beautiful as the sea,
For the hand that held the rope
Was of she that once held me.

When last I had seen merry England
It was tattered with midnight soot that beckoned the denouement of the human condition.
Begrudgingly, the people meandered with heads held low
And dreams held lower.
The simplest way to determine the societal standings of each and all was by their clothing; save that all of their dispositions were ones of the played out and spent.
Happiness lay mountains, valleys, oceans away.

Aboard this great ship,
This hulking bumberdun of wood and steel,
I felt at ease.
Even upon these hostile tides did I feel an unraveling away of the self imposed mummifications that I had attached to myself.
I arose when I pleased,
I dined when I pleased,
And I drank as I pleased.
And not one such "captain" ****** himself with the responsibility of slavedriving.
No one had to.
For the man that suaded the great ship was John Franklin,
A man who commanded as much respect as we could muster.
And who deserved more honor than existence could give.

Franklin was never seen out of form,
Perpetually at the fore and scanning the horizons
Seemingly as if he could see beyond what that of a mortal man could,
What that of a mortal man should.
When we happened upon the mouth of the passage,
Naught but a slight smile escaped him
As the crew drank and shouted with jubilant glee that one might expect from a cathedral when the Lord Almighty had fell upon that place.
For this was Franklin's church
And this was his religion.
Had he believed himself to be God it would not have seemed so far fetched that others would not be led to believe.
But then a tear,
A small and just single tear,
Lazed from his eye
Leaving a trail that one might expect from a dove with no concrete destination.
A hush fell over the men.
All merry making ceased.
All stared in wild-eyed awe towards the regal, icy mountain ranges on the horizon.
Lush, full meadows blanketed the grounds along the mainland.
Whatever paths we had followed to this point were routes well cut.
The sadness,
Sorrow,
Joy,
And loss,
All things fell by the wayside.
Some men prayed,
Others began singing.
Regardless of religious preference,
Each man joined in,
Not so much singing as it were wailing and graciously weeping Amazing Grace
As Franklin led the choir.

God is a mountain in the farthest north of the Americas
And Heaven lay in his valley.

Where the cars are packed so frightfully close,
And billows of smoke do crowd and encroach.
There my love went to sow wild oats,
And that is just fine with me.

Where the troublesome buildings grow tall and wide
And the businessmen march in single lines.
To where my love left my heart and mind,
And that is just fine with me.

Upon my hill I fiddle and sway
And watch from afar the toil and strain.
For now my love is miles away
And that is just fine with me.