Finality of Darkened Treks

[Guest Enos1]

Born of noble creed and colour

Began a tale, bold and true.

Slowly as the learning world

Turned, this strengthened boy grew.

 

And unto man this broth unfurled

Like kindly sap, of tree well known,

A flower, sprouted in his kingdom hence,

A rose, pure white, to ground was sown.

Upon the earthly realm of dust,

Of soiled greetings and human lust.

 

Fought along the road of valor,

Sword with wanting, of life’s amending,

His heart of honour, and eyes of light,

Thus actions made, to terra sending.

 

No guard, no wisdom, but faith he led

And then to terra a guild so bold,

That his kingdom knew, and friends alike,

His walking founded, red rose untold

Coloured of blood, courage named,

Known of ignorance, change unclaimed.

 

And then the moon did show its face:

Silent whisperings of the night,

And the nobility of said could hear.

Cause to bring to he such flight.

 

And never known to the world

Where is heart or eye had been,

But now its place eerily obvious,

Of rose so regal, none could be seen.

And that is where our tale dost lie,

In the heart of darkened eye.

 

A rose – so black – flourished then,

To bring spiked stem to saddened beauty,

He worked and laughed, sighed, preyed,

To those, his kin, he set his duty.

 

For they had nourished the soiled ground

They had shown change well claimed.

They knew of spiteful ignorance,

And they, with passion, could untame.

In the darkness where armies stand,

Of rose that grew, they would demand.

 

“To the ground, the ground, My Love!

Into thus, whence came your sin,

Depart at once, and look not back,

For else your strength shall die within!”

 

The shouts of warning, came from him,

And as commanded, it did now grow,

The dark rose wilted now, inevitable

Its demise began, deathly slow.

From the dirt, and to the lake

Refresh the darkness, and forsake.

 

“To the ground, the ground My Love!

I wish to see your beauty now,

But wisdom forsakes a sacred look,

To the ground! Hear my vow!”

 

But the rose would not be rushed,

And as it went, memories flew,

“My Love, sweet Love, I know you well,

But know you not, nor next your hue.”

And so was true, that statement told,

Unknown to sprout, unknown of mold.

[Peredhil]

I like poems that tell a tale

And this could be a ballad.

Heroic efforts which don't fail

Make this attempt valid.

 

In other words, I enjoyed the read.