As I stand before the iron gate,
not knowing why I came to this forsaken place.
I am so very weary, at the end of this great battle,
I have no home at which to rest my body near a mantle.
A foreshadowing of dread courses through me,
Yet, methinks, reverence knows thy duty.
The decrepit gate creaks as I liberate it from it's frame,
As I hopelessly yearn to be cradled in an embrace,
or, for one last look upon your face.
Lo, my hand remains on the bloody blade,
a useless blade,
which allows no escape, nor protection;
as there is no one here, to receive my last confession.
A silent presence haunts my every step;
I feel an augur of its wintry breath,
deliver shivers at the back of my neck.
Twigs and branches snap beneath my feet,
Shadows advance, but do not speak.
And, as I fall onto bruised knees,
Eerily, I feel exposed and broken,
as I fear, the wraiths of night have awoken.
A drum in the distance begins to beat;
No, not a drum, simply my heart in repeat.
My cries become a low, whimpering wail;
And, as the darkness mingles with hail,
I am aware that these silver knots...
this argent mail...
in the end,
can protect me naught.
As the torch flickers,
and the stars twinkle,
The sun descends.
©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved
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