Arcana Compromised

By SylvanHuntress

Sat, 02 May 2009
  • 1155 reads
7 comments
 

Crude scribbler of base words, crude bearer of rusted swords, smite me with a mighty blow, yet think of all the things ye’d want to know before my last breath expires. Secrets grand that lay beyond death’s gate, secrets made of death and hate, lust and fate, emptiness and the sins of the great.

Paint me a song, with artist’s brush and writer’s quill, paint it with light and shadow, if ye will. Inspiration is a slavish devotion, it cares not for appearances, it will sip from thy soul, it will sup from thy spirit and leave thee sated with it.

Drink now from the chalice that is me, speak now thy own thoughts as from the heart they do rise, like stars in velvety night skies. Inspiration, a favoured lover, a new light to discover, like a vast landscape painted in hues of love and devotion, draped upon the mind's eye like silver upon the ocean.

From the dust I shall rise, a creature but a moment away from a certain demise, look but closely and ye'll see the truth in my eyes. Secrets locked dark and deep, secrets not whispered, even in the velvety realm of sleep. Smite me now and they shall fade away, never to see the light of another dawning day.

Crude scribbler, rude warrior, thief of treasure beyond truth's measure, steal the essence of me and it is only blackness that ye will see. A beating heart, a soul that sings of glory and the rediscovery of ancient things. Archaic tale, forgotten vale, dance of stars across night's veil, these things will be lost to thee, if ye choose to smite me.

Thrust aside thy crude sword, swallow thy knavish words and let me be. I am not a creature of this world, though it does not make me immune to thy sword. I may still bleed at the touch of steel, I am not of here, but still, I am quite real. I am as a songbird that to the moon her sweet song sings, a teller of ancient tales that to ancient truths bear subtle answering.

I beg of thee, do not steal the essence that is me. Crude scribbler, rude warrior, thief of sacred things that once stolen may never be returned, spirit lost upon a foul wind, nothing by this act is gained! Leave me be, I'll not challenge thee, I wish only to be free of thy malice and fear, a spirit that to the moon her song sings, a creature not of here, but a creature that no longer feels thy fear.

Certificate U
Poem
Fantasy

Comments

Submitted by Mangone on
I really like your style when you're not striving to rhyme Sylv! Not sure who is trying to smite thee but "like a vast landscape painted in hues of love and devotion, draped upon the mind's eye like silver upon the ocean." seems such a lovely way of expressing all the love that is lost between the doing and the noticing. All the colours fade to silver on a grey sea.

Submitted by Mangone on
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Submitted by Mangone on
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Submitted by Mangone on
I think the Administrator must have been tinkering when I made the top comment as it has some of the properties of a proper post rather than a comment. No EDIT only REPLY. It took me a while to realise what was going on - hence the several comment boxes. Can you sort it please Idi Admin?

Submitted by SylvanHuntress on
The idea behind the poem was really how arcane knowledge has been destroyed and hidden from the public eye as were many who spread this knowledge and dared to speak out, risking ridicule and even death. Of course, I've a penchant for going off on wild tangents, so, the message is in there, somewhere....

 

Submitted by Mangone on
Actually the knowledge you speak of is hidden in plain sight it is just drowned by the dross of fakes, charlatans and opportunist hucksters. Yet, in effect, it is still, as you say, hidden.

Submitted by SylvanHuntress on
Oh indeed! All you need do is head off to any local Holistic Fair on a Sunday and see them floating around in their multi-coloured dresses with dreadlocks and bare feet, usually with an accompaniment of scarves and bad French accents... often accompanied by non-sensical chatter about the moon and tides and snowflakes in spring and a promise that for five bucks they'll give you an angelic message from the dolphins. It's no wonder that anyone who hints at even the merest spiritual knowledge is often laughed at and called a charlatan. So when you speak out about an ability or a psychic gift you are relegated to the nut-job basket with all the others. The embarassing member of the family, the odd one in the group :P I"m looking forward to hate mail from barefooted dreadlocked scarf wearing dolphin whisperers any moment now *Trots off to peruse my inbox*