Monday, July 2, 2012

Cheek for Cheek

By the way of night comes the enemy to your gates, waiting for his chance to strike, he awaits.
And when he espies his enemies he marks them, he sits within the marshland, the fen.
He contemplates his vengeance unearned, that vengeance within him that has burned
His heart and soul into a cinder of ash and smoke; such a sad faced unhappy bloke.
Yet by his own admission he would rather not be foe, harvests he would gather
Under a summer day with the thought of young Jill sitting at home, beyond the hill.
But clouds did overtake the sun upon his daylight vigil, and by such a shadow, the still
Overcast that did tranquilize the earth's rotation, was an act committed. Condemnation
Was out of reach while he ran towards the screams that did fill his ears, the seams
Of them did burst and all hearing was lost for fear of going mad; such silence cost
Him much more than the sorrow that he felt. Upon the hill he saw, wept, and knelt;
For the sake of life he knew, now gone, had fled behind the cloud strewn sky. Anon
He went to find his love before the night overtook him; for the fledgling dark did brim
With teaming stars, bright as envy emeralds that do take the hue of green pastures; folds
he the door as though it were paper; crushes through the walls of the fire--The Marshes
Where he now sits begin to team with activity, as though the sky had with land made sea
Into a battle ground by which they may sort out their quarrels; this crooked sport
Of assassination begins to wrench a his stomach. A song appears, he begins to hum it,
And as the parade of men goes by in midnight hues, he contemplates what are his dues.
But even as he marks the target, makes a prayer that his aim be true, the would be slayer
See's anew the face of one he loved; for in the face of treachery lies the mark of deadly chore,
And it cannot escape the notice of one who does abhor the deed; it cannot escape the shore,
As a tide that is doomed forever to remain in place; such is the look of this man, his face.
In the name of the Father, he stands to make ready, and of the son, he holds his bow steady,
And of the Holy Spirit, he doesn't blink once, Amen, he looses his arrow; a cry from the men!
Among the flames he see's her, wounded, blood, tears in her eyes, arms extended,
Trapped in a sea of flames, helpless to escape. Behind him comes a blow at the nape,
And he feels no more. Still a daze of colors stands before his eyes, those of his brothers.
And in the marsh the sound of men begins to fill his ears with the same old fears of sin;
He takes flight, not waiting to see to his delight that the man, his target, is finished. A fright
Takes a hold of him, as though spirits walked beside him, blaze the trail and do talk
To his weary soul of greater glory unseen, of a hidden mercy that would have redeemed.
And as he runs through the woods, the sounds of men behind him and around him, found
Out by a pack of wolves that do echo their masters betrayal to men and to women, curs
That do howl like a pack of dogs fresh on the scent, a scene unfolds in his mind. To repent
Of such an action seems like a dream, and yet it takes on a true likeness in visions.
Now the sounds and the sights fade once more, and he see's before him his home, the orr
Of his life, the sweat of his brow, the love of his life, all turned to ash; on his face the glove
Of a brother, a betrayer, a wounded fiend that wound's men; his words begin in tunes
Of ash, and falter as snow flakes that do drift vaguely through the air, seeking like the plague
A place to lodge themselves. Yet the mind will not admit them, does scorn brother's plea, kind
Though it may be. The words begin to funnel into the ear and through the mind, and a tear
Begins to form, upon the cheek it falls; yet in the eyes hatred sounds the trumpet, and calls
For vengeance upon the man that has hurt you, vengeance, may man be given his due!

                      Cheek For Cheek, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

No comments:

Post a Comment