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Post by Morg Stormhammer on Nov 14, 2003 8:54:31 GMT -5
Seasons in the abyss have I spent, with nary a drop of water nor crumb of bread and still do I return here; the mist-cloaked lands and pale skies of that which I call home.
No fair maiden awaits my return, nor fanfare or parade to celebrate the homecoming of a bone-weary adventurer. None, save a single spider, spinning an eternal web, observe my dusty cloak and mud encrusted boots, sitting alone in a corner, symbolic of my life.
Seasons in the abyss have I spent, yet my bones are chilled from the flames of the purgatory I have created within myself. The end is nigh, the days are long and my breath is short.
With neither heir nor sibling shall my soul drift from this earthly existance, to pass into the lands of those who tread before me. Alas, the moon is waxing, blood red and full for the harvest; the harvest of my soul, a belated reaping. As the scythe cuts, I cry. I cry not for fear but for joy; my journeys end.
Seasons in the abyss have I spent, with nary a drop of water nor crumb of bread and still do I return here; the mist-cloaked lands and pale skies of that which I call home.
©1998 Richard Stevens
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Post by Finduilas Ancalimon on Nov 14, 2003 9:23:17 GMT -5
These words will stand all tests of time I am sad to say. I wonder how many souls have thought these words?? You bring that sorrow and deep pain before our eyes. Very moving Morg. Thank you for sharing this one with us
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