"Nothing here remains," said the traveler who stands in my shadowy wake, "but despair and misery." His hand sweept across the landscape that rises and falls like the waves of a stormy sea, if it'd been caught in a moment and painted onto the sandy wasteland that lay before my tired eyes. "Ye who seeks Truth may not know Joy, but wither away like man in old age and the lies shall fade with your existence." I look up at him, not knowing the weight of his words at the time, seeing his wrinkled skin and sad eyes while knowing nothing but bliss. A burden on my chest unknowingly planted itself there, and while the traveler wasted away before my eyes, I wrongfully held his legacy in my hands. I accepted it in my soul. Warped my very being to understand the being that turned to ash before my gaze.
Now I stand in a young boy's wake, watching the sun set on the ruins of this desert while mourning the Time and Life lost by Truth. "Turn away, boy." My voice is low like the sound of gravel. "Turn away before Truth claims you like it did me and my ancestors."
The boy turned his head to the side and said, "Ye who warns me gave in to Truth, yet does not wield its power." He clenched his fist, waving his other hand across the barren wasteland like a man I used to know once did. "My name shall be Wither, and I will revitalize these ruins and my name shall be written in blood. I shall live with a following of death, for The Reaper will bow to my will and praise my name. My enemies shall be not but charred bones and ash, my followers revived enemies slain by my own blade. The Reaper's scythe shall not harvest, but shall collect and give, chained by oath and burden. For Truth is the power I wield and Life is the price I pay, yet Time may yet be on my winning shoulder. My name shall be Wither, look upon my destiny and weep."
And I knelt before him and bowed my head. "Then it is Truth's power you shall wield, for the prophecy of torturous times has yet begun, though shall overwhelm you in its shadow." I then allowed Truth to consume my being, ending what little I had still possessed of Time's gifts, and let my soul rest.
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Poetry For The Masses
PoezjaA collection of poetry and poetic stories written by myself about varying topics, from simple pleasures to fantasy worlds to real problems. Organized in the order of which they're written, these stories make up thoughts and ideas that pass through m...
